71b 


c^^r<^i 


OLD 


/j&iii^'"' 


"1    HEAR    TIIK    HUMMING    OK    THK     WUKKI, 


[j><'!/<    1- 


OLD  HOMESTEAD  POEMS 


BY 


WALLACE   BRUCE 


JJUustratcb 


NEW    YORK 

UAKPER    &    BROTHERS,   FRANKLIX    SQUARE 

18  88 


Copyrigdit,  ^P^j  t>y.  Hawerj  &  .BrtOT^KRS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

THE   MEMORY  OF  HER 

WHO  FILLED  THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD  WITH  SUNSHINE 

AND 

WHO   LONG   SINCE   PASSED   INTO 

THE   LIGHT   THAT   KNOWS  NO   SHADOW 

nil)    IHotljcr 

THESE  POEMS 
ARE   LOVINGLY   DEDICATED 


■)64(J44 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  Old  Homestead. 1 

The  Stranger 7 

'^Inasmuch  " 8 

A  Hand  -  Shake 13 

The  Snoro  Angel 15 

The  Rock  where  my  Mother  Played 17 

The  Printer -Boy  s  Dream 11) 

The  NuptiaU 22 

ScotCs  Greeting  to  Burns  . 23 

A  Nooning  :   Yale,  1S87 27 

Parson  Allenh  Ride 32 

Yorktown,  1881 35 

The  Long  Drama 39 

The  Trij)  of  the  Bell 47 

The  Candle  Parade 49 

The  Silent  Soldier  .  r 54 

The  Hudson 5G 

Remembrance 69 

The  Forest  Ballot 70 

Decollation  -Day 72 

Memorial -Day 74 

"  Veterans  " 7G 

Our  Nation  Forever 79 

The  Yosemite 80 

Ad  Astra  per  Aspera 84 

The  Wisconsin  War  Eagle 88 

The  Slave's  Prayer 91 

Kindness 94 


viii  Coiiieiits. 

Page 

Wendell  Phillips 97 

Lojifjfellmn 98 

The  Land  of  Bums 99 

To  a  Picture  of  Mary  Stuart 105 

A  Rally 106 

The  Pioneers 109 

A  Star-Eyed  Daisy 112 

A  Tennessee  Toast 113 

The  Club  of  Tahawas 114 

An  Island  Fancy 116 

Tulips 122 

A  Holland  Brick 123 

Paris  to  Helen 124 

To  B.  T.  Vince7it 125 

To  J.  11.  Warren 127 

To  Bob  Burdette 130 

Waseca 132 

''Shall  Stand  with  Kings  " 135 

God's  Hearth  -Stone  : 139 

The  Eagle's  Quill 141 

The  Music  of  Light 144 

Questions 145 

The  Infinite 148 

Shadows 149 

My  Christmas  Present 151 

Witch-llazel  Lashes 154 

A  Coast  Survey 156 

Juliet  to  Itoweo 158 

Antony  to  Cleojmtra, 159 

Ferdinand  to  Miranda 160 

Annie ^ 161 

My  Castle 162 

A  Wanderer 164 

To  my  Wife 167 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

"/  hear  the  Humming  of  the  Wheel " Frontispiece 

'■'■And  Ashes  lie  upon  the  Hearth  " -^ 

"  And  Life  and  Love  are  all  complete  " -t 

"  Took  the  two  Bits  from  her  Fingers,  changed  the  Silver  Piece  for  Gold  "  .  .  V> 

"  That  ever  the  Fairies  seemed  to  he  her  Flagmates  ivhen  a  Child  " 17 

The  Catamount  Tavern .  -^'^ 

"  Where  Britain  laid  her  Banner  down  " •{" 

''That  low-roofed  Bioelling  shelters  still  the  Phantom  Tenants  of  the  Past'\  .  4() 

"  The  Man  is  grander  than  the  King  " 4:i 

''Along  its  Heights  the  Beacons  gleamed''^ 45 

"And  round  the  Bluff  a  Paddle  dips  " 57 

"  Or  else  that  Flagon's  wondrous  draught " 59 

"Fort  Putnam'' s  gray  and  ruined  Wall " <)1 

"  The  Spot  tvhere  Kosciusko  dreamed  " <i:i 

"  Where  Geoffrey  Crayon  came  to  rest ". H4 

"And  now,  beneath  the  Palisades " OtJ 

"Below  the  Cliff's  Manhattan's  Spires " <iT 

"A  World's  Cathedral,  with  Walls  sublime  " HO 

"As  thy  Granite -walled  Yosemite  " * h:! 

"  Who  comes  to  till  the  virgin  Soil " Ho 

"  Crossing  Mountains  grim  and  dark  " 9:i 

"  The  Stream  glides  on  to  the  Sea  " 95 

The  Brig  o'  Boon '.  100 

"Dark  Glencoe  " 10^ 

"  That  little  '  Cottage '  thatched  with  Straw  " 103 


X  Ilhistratious. 

Page 

^^ For  there  the  ^  JJaiai/''  itms  uptorn  " 104 

"  tSit  down  by  our  Table  and  eat  of  our  Kail " in? 

"  To  bleak  lond's  pebbled  Strand  " lid 

"  Once  more  on  the  Shore  of  the  Upper  Ausable  " 114 

Miranda 117 

"■^  And  the  Annies  that  ivander  by  Avon-stream  " llt» 

''■The  fairest,  the  briyhtest,  the  sweetest  is  here"" 121 

^^ Each  breakiny  Wave  on  Lakeside's  Strand''' 120 

'■'■The  evening  Fires  are  btirniny  dim  alony  Ckautanqtia'' s  western  Ritn" 130 

''  Where  is  the  Shore  beyond  the  Sea  f'" 147 

"  Silver  Sheen  illumes  the  Deep  " 14!i 

"  Shadowy  Shapes  of  You  and  Me  ". 150 

"  We're  richer  than  the  Tax- list  shows  " 1  oM 

"  0  Hazel  Eyes  of  witching  power  " 155 

"  /  have  sailed  over  many  a  Sea  " 165 

"  Some  sweet  and  quiet  Nook  " 167 


OLD   HOMESTEAD    POEMS. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Welcome,  ye  pleasant  dales  and  hills, 

Where,  dreamlike,  passed  my  early  days  I 
Ye  cliffs  and  glens  and  lan^iSifroS  l-fJls* 

That  sing  unconscious,  Jiymns*  of 'praise  I* 
Welcome,  ye  woods,  witli.  triy^cAiiU  lro\vei»»:  •**. 

Embathed  in  autumn's  mellow  sheen, 
Where  careless  childhood  gathered  flowers, 

And  slept  on  mossy  carpets  green  ! 

The  same  bright  sunlight  gently  plays 

About  the  porch  and  orchard  trees  ; 
The  garden  sleeps  in  noontide  haze. 

Lulled  by  the  murmuring  of  the  bees; 
The  sloping  meadows  stretch  away 

To  upland  field  and  wooded  hill  ; 
The  soft  blue  sky  of  peaceful  day 

Looks  down  upon  the  homestead  still. 

I  hear  the  humming  of  the  wheel — 

Strange  music  of  the  days  gone  by ; 
I  hear  the  clicking  of  the  reel ; 

Once  more  I  see  the  spindle  fiy. 
IIow,  then,  I  wondered  at  the  thread 

That  narrowed  from  the  snowy  wool, 
Much  more  to  see  the  pieces  wed. 

And  wind  upon  the  wliirling  spool  ! 


Old  Homestead  Poetns. 

I  see  the  garret  once  again, 

With  rafter,  beam,  and  oaken  floor; 
I  hear  tlie  pattering  of  the  rain 

As  summer  clouds  go  drifting  o'er. 
The  little  window  towards  the  west 

Still  keeps  its  webs  and  buzzing  flies, 
And  from  this  cosey  childhood  nest 

Jack's  bean-stalk  reaches  to  the  skies. 

I  see  the  circle  gathered  round 

The  open  tireplace  glowing  bright. 

While  birchen  sticks  with  crackling  sound 
Send  forth  a  rich  and   ruddy  light. 

The  window-sill  is  piled  with  sleet, 

The  well -sweep  creaks  before  the  blast, 

But  warm  hearts  make  the  contrast  sweet, 
'\  ''•    SlieJt^i;ed-:fi'oiu  storm,  secure  and  fast. 

r/0'',.V>>yo(l''a'nei-/)f  tlile  long  ago, 

Whose  memories  hang  in  golden  frames, 
nesting  beneath  the  maple's  glow, 

Where  few  e'er  read  your  chiselled  names, 
Come  back,  as  in  that  Christmas  night, 

And  fill  the  vacant  chairs  of  mirth  ! 
Ah  me  !    the  dream  is  all  too  bright. 

And  ashes  lie  upon  the  hearth. 

Below  the  wood,  beside  the  spring. 

Two  little  children  are  at  play, 
And  Hope,  that  bird  of  viewless  wing, 

Sings  in  their  hearts  the  livelong  day. 
The  acorns  patter  at  their  feet. 

The  squirrel  chatters  'neath  the  trees, 
And  life  and  love  are  all  complete — 

They  hold  Aladdin's  lamp  and  keys. 

And,  sister,  now  my  children  come 
To  find  the  water  just  as  cool, 

To  play  about  our  grai\dsirc's  home. 
To  see  our  pictures  in  the  pool ; 


AMI    Ar-IIL^    1.11.    I   l'ii\     1II1-.    UEAKTll. 


The  Old  Homestead. 


AND  LIFE  AND  LOVE  AUE  ALL  COMPLETE." 


Their  lans^liter  fills  the  shady  glen, 
The  fountain  gurgles  o'er  with  joy 

That,  after  years  full  three  times  ten, 
It  finds  its  little  girl  and  boy. 

No  other  spring  in  all  the  world 

Is  lialf  so  clear  and  cool  and  bright, 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

No  other  leaves  by  autumn  curled 
Pweflect  for  lue  such  golden  Hglit. 

Of  childhood's  faith  this  is  the  shrine; 
I  kneel  beside  it  now  as  then, 

And  though  the  springs  no  longer  mine, 
I  kiss  its  cooling  lips  again. 

Unchanged  it  greets  the  changeful  years  ; 

Its  life  is  one  unending  dream  ; 
No  record  here  of  grief  or  tears, 

But,  like  the  limpid  meadow  stream. 
It  seems  to  sympathize  Avith  youth, 

Just  as  the  river  does  with  age, 
And  ever  whispers— sweetest  truth 

Is  written  on  life's  title-page. 


THE    STRANGER. 

AN  EASTERN  LEGEND. 

An  aged  man  came  late  to  Abraham's  tent. 

Tlie  sky  was  dark,  and  all  the  plain  was  bare, 
lie  asked  for  bread;   his  strength  was  wellnigh  spent, 

His  haggard  look  implored  the  tenderest  care. 
The  food  was  brought.     He  sat  with  thankful  e3'es, 

But  spake   no  grace,  nor  bowed  he  towards  the  east. 
Safe  sheltered  here  from  dark  and   angry  skies, 

The  bounteous  table  seemed  a  royal  feast. 
But  ere  his  hand  had  touched  the  tempting  fare. 

The  Patriarch  rose,  and  leaning  on  his  rod — 
"Stranger,"  he  said,  "dost  thou  not  bow  in  prayer? 

Dost  thou  not  fear,  dost  thou  not  worship  God  T' 

He  answered,  "  Xay."     The  Patriarch  sadly  said: 
"Thou  hast  my  pity.     Go!  eat  not  my  bread." 

Another  catne  that  wild  and  fearful  night. 

The  fierce  winds  raged,  and  darker  grew  the  sky  ; 
But  all  the  tent  was  filled  with  wondrous  light, 

And  Abraham  knew  the  Lord  his  God  was  nigh. 
"  Where  is  that  aged  man  ?"  the  Presence  said, 

"That  asked  for  shelter  from  the  driving  blast? 
Who  made  thee  master  of  thy  Master's  bread  ? 

What  right  hadst  thou  the  wanderer  forth  to  cast  V 
"Forgive  me,  Lord,"  the  Patriarch  answer  made, 

With  downcast  look,  with  bowed  and  trembling  knee. 
"Ah  me!  the  stranger  might  with  me  have  stayed. 

But,  O  my  God,  he  would  not  worship  Thee." 

"Pve  borne  him  long,"  God  said,  "and  still  I  wait; 
Couldst  thou  not  lodge  him  one  night  in   thy  gate?'' 


"  INASMUCH." 

A  CIIRIST3IAS   STORY. 

You  say  that  you  want  a  Meetin'- house  for  the  boys  in  the  gulch  up 

there, 
And  a  Sunday-school  with  pictur' -  books  ?     Well,  put   me  down   for  a 

share. 
I  believe  in  little  children  ;    it's  as  nice  to  hear  'em  read 
As  to  wander  round  the  ranch  at  noon  and  see  the  cattle  feed. 
And  I  believe  in  preachin'  too — by  men  for  preachin'  born, 
Who  let  alone  the  husUs  of  creed  and  measure  out  the  corn. 
The  pulpit's  but  a  manger  where  the  pews  are  Gospel -fed; 
And  they  say  'twas  to  a  manger  that  the  Star  of  Glory  led. 
So  I'll  subscribe  a  dollar  toward  the  manger  and  the  stalls; 
I  always  give  the  best  I've  got  whenever  my  partner  calls. 
And,  stranger,  let  me  tell  you  :  I'm  beginning  to  suspect 
That  all  the  world  are  partners,  whatever  their  creed  or  sect ; 
That  life  is  a  kind  of  ])ilgrimage — a  sort  of  Jericho  road. 
And  kindness  to  one's  fellows  the  sweetest  law  in  the  code. 
No  matter  about  the  'nitials — from  a  farmer,  you  understand. 
Who's  generally  had  to  play  it  alone  from  rather  an   ornary  hand. 
I've  never  struck  it  rich,  for  farming,  you  see,  is  slow  ; 
And  whenever  the  crops  ai'o  fairly  good  the  ])rices  are  always  low. 
A  dollar  isn't  very  much,  but  it  helps  to  count  the  same; 
The  lowest  trump  suj)ports  the  ace,  and  sometimes  wins  the  game. 
It  assists  a  fellow's  ])raying  when  he's  down  upon  his  knees — 
'•Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  to  one  of  the  least  of  these." 
I  know  the  verses,  stranger,  so  you  needn't  stop  to  quote ; 
It's  a  different  thing  to  know  them  or  to  say  them  off  by  rote. 
I'll  tell  you  where  I  learned  them,  if  you'll  step  in  from  tiic  rain  : 
'Twas  down  in  'Frisco,  years  ago — had  been  there  hauling  grain  ; 
It  was  just  across  the  feiry,  on   the  Sacramento  ])ike, 
Where  stores  and  sheds  are  rather  mixed,  and  shanties  scatterin'  like  — 


'''' Inasmuchr  ii 

Not  the  likeliest  place  to  be  in.     I  remciuber  tlie  saloon, 

With  grocery,  market,  baker -shop,  and  bar-room  all  in  one. 

And  this  made  up  the  picture — my  hair  was  not  then  gray, 

But  everything  still  seems  as  real  as  if  'twere  yesterday. 

A  little  girl  with  haggard  face  stood  at  the  counter  there — 

Not    more    than    ten    or    twelve    at    most,    but    worn    with    grief    and 

care ; 
And  her  voice  was  kind  of  raspy,  like  a  sort  of  chronic  cold — 
Just  the  tone  you  find  in  children  who  are  prematurely  old. 
She  said :  "  Two  bits  for  bread  and  tea,  ma  hasn't  much  to  eat ; 
She  hopes  next  week  to  work  again,  and  buy  us  all  some  meat. 
We've  been  half- starved  all  winter,  but  spring  will  soon  be  here, 
And  she  tells  us,  'Keep  up  courage,  for  God  is  always  near.'" 
Just  then  a  dozen  men  came  in  ;  the  boy  was  called  away 
To  shake  the  spotted  cubes  for  drinks,  as  Forty-niners  sa}'. 
I  never  heard  from  human  lips  such  oaths  and  curses  loud' 
As  rose  above  the  glasses  of  that  crazed  and  reckless  crowd. 
But  the  poor  tired  girl  sat  waiting,  lost  at  last  to  revels  deep. 
On  a  keg  beside  a  barrel  in  the  corner,  fast  asleep. 
Well,  I  stood  there,  sort  of  waiting,  until  some  one  at  the  bar 
Said,  "Hello!     I  say,  stranger,  what  have  you  over  thar?" 
The  boy  then  told  her  story ;  and  that  crew,  so  fierce  and  wild, 
Grew  intent,  and  seemed  to  listen  to  the  breathing  of  the  child. 
The  glasses  all  were  lowered.     Said  the  leader :  "  Boys,  see  here ; 
All    day    we've    been    pouring    whiskey,   drinking  deep   our   Christmas 

cheer. 
Here's  two  dollars.      I've  got  feelings,  which  are  not  entirely  dead. 
For  this  little  girl  and  mother  suffering  for  the  want  of  bread.'' 
"Here's  a  dollar."     "Here's   another;"    and  they  all  chipped    in   their 

share. 
And  they  planked  the  ringing  metal  down  upon  the  counter  there. 
Then  the  spokesman  took  a  golden  double -eagle  from  his  belt. 
Softly  stepped  from  bar  to  counter,  and  beside  the  sleeper  knelt; 
Took    the  "two    bits"  from   her  fingers,  changed  her   silver    piece    for 

gold. 
"See  there,  boys,  the    girl    is  dreaming."      Down  her    cheeks  the  tear- 
drops rolled. 
One  by  one  the  swarthy  miners  passed  in  silence  to  the  street. 
Gently  we  awoke  the  sleeper,  but  she  started  to  lier  feet 


I  2  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

"Witli    a    dazed    and    strange    expression,  sayini; :    "  Oh,  I    thonglit  'twas 

true! 
^la  was  well,  and  we  were  liappj  ;   round  our  door-stone  roses  grew. 
We  had  e%'erything  we  wanted,  food  enough,  and  clothes  to  wear; 
And  my  hand  burns  where  an  angel  touched  it  soft  with  fingers  fair." 
As  she  looked  and  saw  the  money  in  her  fingers  glistening   bright — 
•'  Well,    now,    nia    lias    long    been    praying,    but    she    won't    believe    me 

quite, 
How  you've  sent  'way  up  to  heaven,  where  the  golden  treasures  are. 
And  have  also  got  an  angel  clerking  at  your  grocery  bar." 
That's  a  Christmas  story,  stranger,  which  I  thought  you'd  like  to  liear; 
True  to  fact  and  human  nature,  pointing  out  one's  duty  clear. 
Hence,  to  matters  of  subscription  you  will  see  that  I'm  alive — 
Just  mark  off  that  dollar,  stranger;  I  think  I'll  make  it  five. 


A    HAND -SHAKE. 

TO  A   CLASSMATE,  AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS. 
(Recited  before  a  Lecture  at  Dubuque,  lown.) 

What!    fifteen  years?     No,  not  that  loiii:;  ! 
Tlie  record,  David,  must  be  wrong. 
Dear  Mother  Yale,  correct  your  sight, 
It's  only  'sixty -seven  to-night. 

There's  some  mistake — no  jesting  here — 
We're  hardly  out  of  senior  year. 
Dear  mother,  look  again,  I  pray! 
Last  June  was  our  Commencement -day. 

The  elms  on  old  New  Haven  green 
Have  scarcely  lost  their  rnsset  sheen  ; 
It  only  seems  an  evening  since 
We  sat  upon  the  college  fence. 

But  tell  me,  now,  whose  bairns  are  these — 
Bright  boys  and  girls,  about  your  knees? 
Somehow  they  seem  to  look  like  you. 
Old  Yale  is  right — 'tis  'eightv-two. 

Ay,  facts  are  chiels  which   wiiina  ding, 
And  bairns  are  facts  the  decades  bring. 
Come  home  with  me,  I'll  introduce 
Another  flock  that  looks  like  Bruce. 

I  think  we'll  have  another  pair 

To  take  our  seats  in  coUei^e  there — 


14  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

All,  David,  how  old  Yale  will  shine  . 
When  she  receives  your  boys  and  mine 


They'll  never  sleep  in  Chapel  I — no  ! — 
Like  bricks  tipped  sideways  in  a  row  ; 
They'll  never  help  each  other  thronuh 
Old  Euclid,  like  some  lads  we  knew. 

It's  our  good-lnck  and  dearest  joy 
To  find  iriore  gold  in  each  alloy  ; 
For  in  each  bright  and  childish  face 
We  both  can  read  their  mother's  grace. 

Let  others  boast  their  gear  and  wealth, 
These  are  onr  treasures,  rich  with  health  ; 
The  livinir  sold  that's  coined  above, 
Fresh  from  the  mint,  and  stamped  with  love 

Upon  this  truth  M'c  take  our  stand. 
Two  brothers  of  a  scattered  band. 
Give  us  your  hand,  for  words  are  lame, 
I  find  you,  David,  just  the  same  ; 

With  cheery  voice,  with  generous  heart. 
With  will  to  do  the  manly  part ; 
A  noble  leader  now  as  then — 
'Twas  then  of  boys,  but  now  of  men. 


THE   SNOW  ANGEL. 

The  sleiojh  -  bells  danced  that  winter  nijjht ; 

Old  Brattleboro  raiiff  with  o-lee  ; 
The  windows  overflowed  with  light ; 

Joy  ruled  each  hearth  and  Christmas-tree. 
But  to  one  the  bells  and  mirth  were  naught : 
His  soul  with  deeper  joy  was  fraught. 

He  waited  until  the  guests  were  gone  ; 
He  waited  to  dream  his  dream  alone; 
And  the  night  wore  on. 

Alone  he  stands  in  the  silent  inVht ; 

He  piles  the  snow  in  the  village  square ; 
With  spade  for  chisel,  a  statue  white 
From  the  crystal  quarry  rises  fair. 
No  light  save  the  stars  to  guide  liis  hand. 
But  the  image  obeys  his  soul's  command. 
The  sky  is  draped  with  fleecy  lawn, 
The  stars  grow  pale  in  the  early  dawn, 
But  the  lad  toils  on. 

And  lo !  in  the  morn  the  people  came 

To  gaze  at  the  wondrous  vision  there  ; 
And  they  called  it  "The  Angel,"  divining  its  name, 

For  it  came  in  silence  and  unaware. 
It  seemed  no  mortal  liand  had  wrought 
The  uplifted  face  of  prayerful  thought ; 

But  its  features  wasted  beneath  the  sun  : 
Its  life  went  out  ere  the  day  was  done; 
And  the  lad  dreamed  on. 


1 6  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

And  his  dream  was  this :    In  the  years  to  he 

I  will  carve  the  Angel  in  lasting  stone; 
In  another  land  beyond  the  sea 

I  will  toil  in  darkness,  will  dream  alone. 
While  others  sleep  I  will  find  a  way 
Up  through  the  night  to  the  light  of  day. 

Tiiere's  nothing  desired  beneath  star  or  sun 
Which  patient  gcnins  has  not  won. 
And  the  boy  toiled  on. 

The  years  go  by.     lie  has  wrought  with  might; 

He  has  gained  renown  in  the  land  of  art ; 
But  the  thought  inspired  that  Christmas  night 
Still  kept  its  place  in  the  sculptor's  heart; 
And  the  dream  of  the  boy,  that  melted  away 
In  the  light  of  the  sun  that  winter  day, 

Is  embodied  at  last  in  enduring  stone, 
Snow  Angel  in  marble — his  purpose  won  ; 
And  the  man  toils  on. 


THE  ROCK  WHERE  MY  MOTHER  PLAYED. 

I  HEAR  the  notes  of  the  whippoorwill 
As  of  old  in  the  gathering  shade; 

I  sit  by  the  rock  on  the  quiet  hill 

Where  in  girlhood  my  mother  played. 


^Sm;  1 


"THAT    EM-Ai    TUE     FAIRIES    SEEMED     lu     i.i:,     iil.k     i  ..a  .  ji.v  1  i:.s     WllLN     A     ill. 


1 8  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

With  cheeks  out-blooming  tlie  morning  flowers, 
And  with  lieart  as  light  as  May, 

It  was  here  that  she  came  in  the  golden  hours, 
By  the  lichened  rock  to  play  : 

A  granite  waif,  by  glacier  borne 
From  a  far-away  northern  sea; 

It  seemed  so  lonely,  from  kindred  torn, 
That  she  kept  it  company. 

Till  all  in  fancy  or  witching  dream 
It  shone  with  a  glimmering  light, 

While  fairies  trooped  in  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
To  dance  through  the  summer  night. 

And  such  was  her  tender  grace  to  me, 
As  we  wandered  the  forest  wild. 

That  ever  the  fairies  seemed  to  be 
Her  playmates  when  a  child. 

And  she,  a  queen  of  the  Sylphid  race, 
On  her  silvery  throne  held  swa}' ; 

But  alas!  I  dream  of  her  girlish  face. 
And  the  rock  is  cold  and  gray. 

For  the  fairies  went  when  my  mother  died, 
And  my  years  were  scarcely  ten; 

I  come  to-night  from  wandering  wide, 
But  they  never  will  come  again. 

I  love  the  gardeii  and  orchard  old. 
The  meadows  her  footsteps  pressed, 

And  the  stately  oaks  that  shook  their  gold 
In  the  lap  of  their  gentle  guest. 

I  love  the  spring  and  the  rippling  rill, 
Where  in  evening  she  often   strayed; 

But  dearer  to  mo  the  quiet  hill 

And  the  rock  where  my  mother  ])layed. 


THE   PRINTER -BOY'S   DREAM. 

On  a  rickety  stool  by  a  rickety  door 
Of  the  editor's  room  on  the  upper  floor, 

In  the  inner  sanctum  of  pen  and  shears, 
Sat  a  printer's  boy  of  uncertain  years 

"Waiting  for  copy ;  and  all  was  still 
Save  the  rasping  scratch  of  a  rapid  quill. 

The  Carrier's  Address  was  being  born 

In  the  old  -  time  verse  for  the  New  Year's  morn ; 

And  the  editor  wrote  like  a  man  inspired, 
But  the  hour  was  late,  and  the  boy  was  tired. 

Congressional  Records,  in  binding  grim, 
And  Patent  Reports  looked  down  on  him — 

Plump  volumes  revealing  the  nation's  health, 
And  of  books  the  editor's  only  wealth. 

Large  files  of  papers,  dusty  and  old. 
In  unswept  corners  quietly  told 

That  his  paper  was  somehow  a  thing  of  dates, 
While  the  plums  were  reserved  for  happier  fates. 

But  the  books,  and  the  files,  and  the  editor  gray. 
To  the  drowsy  boy  were  fading  away  ; 


20  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

And  tlie  narrow  room  seemed  a  gallery  grand, 
With  rich  wrought  carvings  on  every  hand. 

Beantifnl  volumes  quaint  and  old, 
Yellow  vellums  with  clasps  of  gold, 

Arranged  in  ebony  cases  rare, 
Greeted  his  vision  everywhere  ; 

And  he  noted — the  books  in  tens  were  placed, 
And  a  hundred  volumes  each  alcove  graced. 

Eighteen  were  closed  with  a  brazen  bar, 
But  the  Nineteenth  alcove  was  still  ajar. 

No  parchment  here  ;   the  books  were  new, 
And  the  last  was  registered  Eighty -two; 

While  a  boy  in  feature  resembling  him, 
Kot  ragged  and  soiled,  but  neat  and  trim, 

Near  the  lower  shelf,  he  seemed  to  see 
Placing  another  marked  Eighty- three  ; 

And  an  angel  sat  in  a  golden  chair, 
Writing  in  characters  bright  and  fair 

With  a  noiseless  pen  ;   and  the  volume  bore 
On  the  clear  white  margin  Eighty -four. 

But  the  vision  vanished  with,  "Johnny,  come! 
This  to  the  foreman,  and  then  go  home. 

"Wait,  one  line  more — a  merry  cheer! 
To  each  and  all  a  blithe  New -year!" 

Gone  were  the  alcoves  with  carving  old, 
And  volumes  rich  witii  clasps  of  gold; 


The  Priftter-boys  Dream.  2 1 

The  Patent  Reports  came  back  again, 
The  whitewashed  wall,  the  dingy  den  ; 

And  the  angel  that  sat  in  glory  there 
Was  the  editor  gray  in  his  old  arm-chair. 


THE  NUPTIALS. 

NEW  YORK  AND  BROOKLYN,  1883. 

The  nuptial  -  knot  at  last  is  firmly  tied; 
A  hundred  bells  ring  ont  a  merry  chime, 
A  hundred  wires  proclaim  to  every  clime — 

Manhattan  takes  fair  Brooklyn  for  his  bride. 

In  strength  and  beauty  growing  side  by  side, 
Cities  betrothed,  you  Avaited  vigorous  prime, 
Like  steadfast  lovers  of  the  olden  time, 

Ere  greed  and  gain  our  early  faith  defied. 

We  wish  you  joy.     No  longer  twain,  but  one. 
Forever  bound  in  links  of  triple  steel  ; 

You  need  no  marriage  ritual  to  rehearse, 
Which  Venice  chanted  to  bright  Adria  won  ; 
No  golden  ring ;   the  service  now  is  real — 
"  Each  other  take  for  better  or  for  worse." 


SCOTT'S  GREETING  TO  BURNS. 

CENTRAL  PARK,  NEW  YORK,  1880. 

We  greet  j'ou,  Robie,  here  to-night, 
Beneath  these  stars  so  pure  and  bright ; 
We  greet  yon,  poet,  come  at  last 
With  "Will"  and  me  your  lot  to  cast. 

We've  talked  about  you  many  a  day, 
And  wondered  when  you'd  be  this  way. 
Iweach  out  your  hand,  and  gie's  a  shake 
Just  ance,  for  auld  acquaintance'  sake. 

We  welcome  you  from  Scotia's  land, 
And  reach  to  you  a  brither's  hand  ; 
A  kindred  soul  to  greet  you  turns — 
Will  Shakespeare,  this  is  Robie  Bui-ns. 

We've  sung  your  songs  here  many  a  night 
Till  that  dear  star  is  lost  in  light, 
And  Willie  says  the  lines  you  wrote 
Will  even  do  for  him  to  quote. 

He  likes  your  verses  wondrous  weel, 
And  says  you  are  a  glorious  chiel ; 
In  fact,  the  only  one  that  knows 
The  space  'twixt  poetry  and  prose. 

O  Robie,  if  we  had  a  plaid, 

We'd  quite  convert  yon  Stratford  lad. 

lie  said,  in  truth,  but  yestcr-morn, 

"I'm  Scotch  in  wit,  though  English  born; 


24  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

"And,  Walter,  it  may  yet  appear 
That  Scotland  takes  in  Warwickshire. 
Let  Avon  be  the  border  line, 
Blot  out  the  Tweed,  or  draw  it  fine." 

So,  Willie,  brew  yonr  peck  o'  niaut, 
And  set  the  board  wi'  Attic  saut, 
For  Eob  has  come  at  last,  you  see — 
We  were  a  pair,  but  now  we're  three. 

We  need  nae  ither  comrade  now, 
No  modern  bard  o'  classic  brow; 
'Tis  lanff  before  anither  man 
Will  be  aduiitted  to  our  clan. 

In  stormy  nights  'twas  lonesome  here 
When  "Will""  recited  half  o'  "Lear;" 
But  now  he  quotes  O'Shanter's  tale 
In  thunder,  lightning,  and  in  hail. 

And  says  his  witches  can't  compare 
With  those  that  chased  O'Shanter's  mare. 
He's  even  learned  your  "  Deil  Address," 
To  quote  some  night  for  good  Queen  Bess, 

For,  Robie,  this  is  haunted  ground, 
Wiiere  spirits  keep  their  nightly  round. 
And  when  the  witchin'  hour  is  near 
You'll  see  strange  beings  gather  here. 

I  saw  Queen  Bess  the  other  night 
Beside  him,  clad  in  vesture  bright. 
While  kings  and  queens,  a  noble  throng, 
In  dim  procession  passed  along ; 

And  walls  seemed  rising  from  the  earth, 
Like  Leicester's  tower  at  Keuilworth  ; 
And  all  the  pageant  that  was  there 
Seemed  floating  in  the  moonlit  air. 


Scott's  Greeting  to  Burns.  25 

Ay,  beaut}'',  jealousy,  and  pride, 
In   Dudley's  halls  walked  side  by  side, 
While  Amy  Ilobsart  seemed  to  stand 
With  fair  Ophelia,  hand  in  hand. 

And,  Itobie,  what  a  vision  came 

As  Willie  whispered  Ariel's  name! 

The  towers  dissolved,  and  round  him  drew 

The  stately,  gentle,  fair,  and  true — 

Miranda,  Juliet,  Imogen, 
Hermione,  and  Katharine, 
While  Rosalind  among  them  stood — 
The  sunlight  of  sweet  Arden's  wood. 

'Twere  long  to  pass  them  in  review. 
For  still  the  circle  wider  grew, 
Until  the  airy  vision  bright 
Was  lost  at  last  in  liquid  light. 

So  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear, 
Never  to  tell  what  passes  here. 
There'll  be  a  grand  reception  soon 
To  greet  the  lad  frae  Bonnie  Doon. 

We'll  gather  up  the  jolliest  crew — 
Falstaff,  Prince  Hal,  and  Ehoderick  Dhu; 
And  "a'  the  rantin'  brither  Scots 
Frae  Maiden  Kirk  tae  John  o'  Groats." 

So,  Robie,  mak'  yoursel'  at  home, 
'Mang  friends  and  brithers  you  have  come, 
And  here's  a  land  that's  quite  as  fair 
As  that  between  the  Doon  and  Ayr. 

A  land  that  glories  in  its  youth. 
That  owns  no  creed  but  living  trutli, 
AVhere  "  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth " 
A  refuije  find  frae  rank  and  birth ; 


26  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

A  land  tliat's  made  jour  verses  real, 
Whose  guinea -stamp  is  honor's  seal; 
Ay,  Robie,  here  tliej've  quite  forgot 
To  write  the  "Sir"— just  Walter  Scott. 

And  here  your  songs  will  ever  ring 
Through  a'  the  years  the  centuries  bring, 
Till  all  are  free,  and  every  sea 
Shall  know  nae  shore  but  liberty. 


A  NOONING:   YALE,  1887. 

(Rend  at  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Meeting  of  the  Twentieth  Anniversary  of  the  Class  of  '67.) 

Han«  lip  the  scytlie!     Tale's  dinner -horn 
AVakes  hill  and  plain  with  echoes  sweet ; 

Again,  as  in  the  early  morn. 

The  boys  around  one  table  meet, 

To  ask  each  other  where  and  how 

The  sloping  field  or  garden  lies; 
To  wipe  the  sweat -drops  from  the  brow, 

To  brush  the  moisture  from  the  eyes ; 

To  lay  aside  the  coil  of  care. 

To  sit  beneath  the  templed  trees. 
A  quiet  hour  of  rest  to  share. 

And  bare  the  forehead  to  the  breeze ; 

To  speak,  till  eyes  and  words  grow  dim. 

Of  those  who  by  the  wayside  fell — 
Fond  memory  floods  the  bucket's  brim 

Which  rises  from  the  homestead  well ; 

To  sing  in  brief  and  simple  strain 

The  swelling  music  of  the  heart, 
A  melody  with  sweet  refrain 

That  sweeps  beyond  the  bounds  of  art ; 

To  note  the  lines  upon  the  face. 

Where  sunshine  plays  though  wrinkles  delve : 

Their  pointers  mark  meridian -place  ; 
The  coUcire  clock  is  strikins:  twelve. 


2  8  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

For  us  the  forenoon's  work  is  done, 
We  celebrate  our  twentieth  year, 

The  ehns  shut  out  the  blazing  sun, 

The  drowsy  "nooning  hour"  is  here. 

We  started  forth  when  glittering  dew 
Aladdin's  tales  did  well  repeat ; 

The  skies  have  lost  their  roseate  hue, 
The  stubble  crackles  'neatli  our  feet. 

We  started  when  the  fields  were  bright, 
And  shadows  all  behind  us  lay ; 

From  noontide  now  till  fading  light 
The  shadows  fall  the  other  way. 

We  went  with  many  a  ringing  shout, 
With  merry  boast  and  lusty  cheer ; 

We  come  with  love  that  conquers  doubt, 
With  hope  that  triumphs  over  fear. 

We've  earned  at  least  an  idle  hour 
To  talk  tog-ether  in  the  shade — 

The  boy  who  drew  the  diamond  bower, 
Or  he  who  held  the  poorest  spade  ; 

The  boy  who  toiled  with  brawny  arm. 

The  youth  with  fortune's  spoon  of  gold, 

Or  lad,  like  "  David,"  born  to  chann 
With  plumed  flights  of  genius  bold. 

We  see  each  individual  man 

Portrayed  as  in  a  magic  glass. 

When  sixty -seven  led  the  van — 
A  royal,  independent  class. 

Which  kept  its  course  through  sun  and  shade 
With  grit  that  never  knew  defeat, 

And  wrote  upon  each  ringing  blade 
"Macte  Virtute!"     Hard  to  beat. 


A  Nooning:  Yale,  1887.  29 

"We  had  no  leaders,  so  to  speak, 

No  towering  genius  of  control, 
A  new  republic  every  week — 

A  grand  committee  of  the  whole, 

Which  went  its  way,  yes,  different  ways, 

In  that  cosine  and  tangent  year. 
Twin  Euclid -babes  in  solemn  baize. 

Borne  on  the  old  biennial  bier. 

"We  marclied  full  front  in  battle  line, 

"We  never  drilled  in  squad  or  file, 
No  colonel  decked  in  sashes  fine — 

High  privates  all  in  general  style. 

We  read  of  Arthur's  matchless  sword. 

And  each  one  thought  to  try  a  hand  ; 
But  visions  fled  when   monthly  board 

Dispersed  the  brave  and  knightly  band. 

"We  traced  the  bright  inscription  fair — 

"  Who  pulls  this  blade  from  out  the  stone  ;" 

But,  ah  !   no  Merlin's  skill  was  there. 

And  none  might  draw  the  sword  alone. 

And  then  we  dreamed  of  Portia  dear, 

"With  towers  and  castles  ready  made; 
But  no  Antonio  was  near 

To  start  us  in  the  casket  trade. 

Till  dawned  the  meaning  of  the  tales 

By  Mallory  and  Shakespeai-e  told — 
He  must  attempt  who  wins  or  fails. 

And  ''all  that  glistens  is  not  gold;" 

That  there  are  other  knights  of  fame 

Than  Galahad  or  brave  Gawaine, 
And  other  maids  of  sweeter  name 

Than  Portia  fair  or  dear  Elaine; 


JO  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

That  patience  does  not  always  win, 
Or  genius  dream  its  way  to  power, 

But  both  united  enter  in 

To  take  the  sword  and  princely  dower  ; 

That  neither  wins  the  race  alone, 

That  patience  pulls  while  genius  steers  ; 

Talent  is  muscle,  brawn,  and  bone. 
Genius  the  master  of  the  gears. 

Ay,  such  the  lesson  of  old  Yale, 

The  crowning  glory  of  her  blue — 

That  pluck  and  patience  never  fail 
With  genius  coxswain  of  the  crew. 

C)  darling  mother,  loved,  revered 
By  loyal  sons  in  every  land, 

Proud  of  the  temples  you  have  reared. 
We  come  to  take  you  by  the  hand  ; 

To  look  into  your  loving  face. 

And  see  the  roses  on  your  cheeks. 

To  note  the  glow  and  matchless  grace, 
The  living  eloquence  that  speaks 

Of  native  mettle  in  the  man, 

That  sends  him  forth  to  do  and  dare, 

With  "menu"  spelled  American — 
Our  Alma  Mater's  "  bill  of  fare." 

And  so  we  come  from  many  a  field. 
From  town  and  city  far  and  near. 

To  trace  again  your  storied  shield, 

And  read  once  more  our  title  clear ; 

To  hail  the  fair  and  crowning  arch, 
The  widening  portal  of  your  fame, 

To  note  the  ever  onward  march 

Of  steadfast  Vale  with  newer  name  ; 


A  Nooning:  Yale,  1887.  31 

A  University,  in  truth, 

That  meets  the  people's  high  demand, 
A  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 

The  pride  and  glory  of  the  land. 

So  may  we  come  for  njany  a  year. 

Through  smiles  and  tears  with  spirits  blithe, 

A  loyal  band  of  classmates  dear. 

Till  Time  for  us  hangs  up  his  scythe. 


PARSON    ALLENIS    RIDE. 

{Read  at  tlie  Bennington  Centennial,  1875.) 

The  "Catamount  Tavern"  is  lively  to-night, 

Tlie  boys  of  Yerniont  and  Xew  Hampshire  are  here, 

All  drawn  up  in  line  in  the  lingering  light, 

To  ffreet  Parson  Allen  with  shout  and  with  cheer. 

Over  mountain  and  valley,  from  Pittslield  green. 
Through  the  driving  rain  of  that  August  day, 

The  "Flock"  marched  on  with  martial  mien, 

And  the  Parson  rode  in  his  "one-horse  shay." 

"  Three  cheers  for  old  Berkshire  !"  the  General  said, 
As  the  boys  of  New  England  drew  up  face  to  face. 

"  Baum  bids  us  a  breakfast  to-morrow  to  spread, 
And  the  Parson  is  here  to  say  us  the  'grace.'" 

"The  lads  who  are  with  me  have  come  here  to  tight, 
And  we  know  of  no  grace,"  was  the  Parson's  reply, 

"Save  the  name  of  Jehovuli,  our  country  and  right. 

Which  your  own  Ethan   Allen  pronounced  at  Fort  Ti." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Stark,  "there'll  be  fighting  to  do. 
If  you  think  you  can  wait  for  the  morning  light ; 

And,  Parson,  Fll  conquer  the  British  with  you, 
Or  Molly  Stark  sleeps  a  widow  at  night." 

AVhat  the  Parson  dreamed  in  that  Bennington  camp 
Neither  Yankee  noi-  J*i-o])het  would  dare  to  guess ; 

A  vision,  perhaps,  of  the  King  David  stamp, 

With  a  mixture  of  Cromwell  and  good  Queen  Bess. 


Parson  Alleiis  Ride. 

But  wc  know  the  result  of  that  f^lorious  day, 

And  the  victory  won  ere  the  night  came  down  ; 

How  Warner  charged  in  the  bitter  fray 

With  Rossiter,  Hobart,  and  old  John  ]>rown  ! 

And  how,  in  a  lull  of  the  three -hours'  fight, 
The  Parson  harangued  the  Tory  line 

As  he  stood  on  a  stuuip,  witli  his  musket  bright. 
And  sprinkled  his  texts  with  the  powder  tine : 


33 


THE    CATAMOUNT    TAVERN. 


"The  sword  of  the  Lord  is  our  battle-cry, 
A  refuge  sure  in  the  hour  of  need," 

And  freedom  and  faith  can  never  die 
Is  article  first  of  the  Puritan  creed. 


3 


"  Perhaps  the  '  occasion  '  was  rather  rash," 

He  remarked  to  his  conu'ades  after  the  rout ; 

'-  For  behind  a  bush  1  saw  a  flash. 

But  I  fired  that  way  and  put  it  out." 


34  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

And  many  tlie  sayings,  eccentric  and  queer, 

Repeated  and  sung  througli  the  whole  country  -  side. 

And  quoted  in  Berkshire  for  many  a  year, 

Of  the  PittsHeld  marcli  and  tlie  Parson's  ride. 

All  Ijonor  to  Stark  and  his  resolute  men, 

To  the  Green  Mountain  Boys  all  honor  and  praise. 

While  with  shout  and  with  cheer  we  welcome  again 
The  Parson,  who  came  in  his  one-horse  chaise. 


YORKTOWN,  1881. 

We  stand  to-day  on  Yorktown  field, 
Where  Britain  laid  her  banner  down, 

Where  tyranny  to  freedom  kneeled, 

And  dropped  the  jewels  from  her  crown. 

We  gather  here  from  every  land, 

Witli  offerings  bronght  from  near  and  far, 
Like  men  of  old — tlie  Eastern  band — 

Led  onward  by  the  Western  star. 

We  meet  around  an  humble  shrine, 

AVe  mark  the  spot  with  graven  stone, 

A  trophy  to  that  Right  Divine 

Whereby  to  manhood  we  have  grown. 

Our  hundred  years  of  j'outh  have  passed, 
With  deeds  that  prove  the  Xation  brave. 

And  strife  and  jealousy  at  last 

Lie  buried  in  one  common  grave. 

One  flag  floats  over  all  the  land, 
One  sentiment  thrills  every  heart ; 

No  foreign  foe,  no  factious  band, 
The  land  we  love  shall  ever  part. 

The  past  is  sure,  the  future  waits  : 
The  years  with  enterprise  are  rife; 

With  hope  the  century  celebrates 
The  birthday  of  a  nation's  life. 


36  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

We  measure  time  by  glorious  deeds ; 

All  history  is  simply  this: 
It  skips  the  years ;   it  merely  reads 

From  Marathon  to  Salamis. 

We  gather  courage  from  the  past, 
And  from  heroic  pages  learn  : 

Triumphant  freedom  finds  at  last 
A  Rnnnymede  or  BannocUburn. 

Ay,  every  struggle  to  be  free 

'Gainst  courtly  craft  and  regal  might, 

Preserves  the  line  of  liberty, 

And  keeps  her  armor  clean  and  bright. 

The  sceptre  and  the  diadem 

In  ev'ry  land  shall  lose  their  power, 

Freedom's  the  only  flawless  gem, 

And  equal  rights  the  people's  dower. 

The  diamond  in  the  monarch's  crown 
Is  cr3'stallized  from  peasants'  tears; 

The  purple  of  his  royal  gown 
B.etokens  blood  of  bitter  years. 

The  scaffold  stairs  which  Sidney  trod 
Led  from  the  dungeon  to  the  sky ; 

The  tyrant  sways  a  feeble  rod 

When  patriots  dare  to  do  and  die. 

Grander  the  manger  than  the  throne ; 

"  Free  hearts  and  hands,"  the  poet  sings  ; 
Freedom  and  faith,  and  these  alone, 

"  The  grace  of  God,"  but  not  of  kings. 


THE  LONG  DRAMA. 

(Bead  at  the  Centennial  of  the  Disbanding  of  the  American  Arm;/,  Xewbnrrjh,  N.  T.,  1883.) 

With  banners  bright,  with  roll  of  drums, 
Witli  pride  and  pomp  and  civic  state, 

A  nation,  born  of  courage,  comes 
The  closing  act  to  celebrate. 

We've  traced  the  drama  page  bj  page 
From  Lexington   to  Yorktown  field ; 

The  curtain  drops  upon  the  stage. 

The  century's  book  to-day  is  sealed. 

A  cycle  grand — M'ith  M'onders  fraught 
That  triumph  over  time  and  space — 

In  woven  steel  its  dreams  are  wrought, 
The  nations  M'hisper  face  to  face. 

But  in  the  proud  and  onward  march 
A7e  halt  an  liour  for  dress  parade, 

Kemembering  that  fair  freedom's  arch 
Springs  from  the  base  our  fathers  laid. 

With  cheeks  aglow  with  patriot  fire 

They  pass  in  long  review  again  ; 
We  grasp  the  hand  of  noble  sire 

Who  made  two  words  of  ''  Noblemen." 

In  silence  now  the  tattered  band — 

Heroes  in  homespun  worn  and  gray- 
Around  the  old  Headquarters  stand. 
As  in  that  dark,  uncertain  dav. 


40 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

That  low -roofed  dwelling  shelters  still 
The  phantom  tenants  of  the  past ; 

Each  garret  beam,  each  oaken  sill, 

Treasures  and  holds  their  memories  fast. 

Ay,  humble  walls!    the  manger -birth 
To  emphasize  this  truth  was  given  : 

The  noblest  deeds  are  nearest  earth, 

The  lowliest  roofs  are  nearest  lieaven. 


THAT  LOW-KOOFED  DWELLING   8HELTEK8  STILL  THE  PHANTOM  TENANTS  OF  TUE  PAST. 


The  Long  Di'ama.  41 

We  hear  the  anthem  once  again — 

"No  king  but  God  !" — to  guide  our  way, 

Like  that  of  old — "Good -will  to  men" — 
Unto  the  slirine  where  freedom  Lay. 

One  window  looking  toward  the  east; 

Seven  doors  wide-open  every  side; 
That  room  revered  proclaims  at  least 

An  invitation  free  and  wide. 

Wayne,  Putnam,  Knox,  and  Heath  are  there  ; 

Steuben,  proud  Prussia's  honored  son  ; 
Brave  Lafayette  from  France  the  fair, 

And,  chief  of  all,  our  Washington. 

Serene  and  calm  in  peril's  hour, 

An  honest  man  without  pretence, 
He  stands  supreme  to  teach  the  power 

And  brilliancy  of  common -sense. 

Alike  disdaining  fraud  and  art. 

He  blended  love  with  stern  command  ; 
He  bore  his  country  in  his  heart, 

He  held  his  army  by  the  hand. 

Hush  !    carping  critic,  read  aright 

The  record  of  his  fair  renown  : 
A  leader  by  diviner  right 

Than  he  who  wore  the  British  crown. 

With  silvered  locks  and  eyes  grown  dim, 

As  victory's  sun  proclaimed  the  morn. 
He  pushed  aside  the  diadem 

With  stern  rebuke  and  patriot  scorn. 

He  quells  the  half -paid  mutineers, 

And  binds  them  closer  to  the  cause ; 
His  presence  turns  their  wrath  to  tears, 

Their  muttered  threats  to  loud  applause. 


42  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

The  great  Ilepnhlic  liad  its  birtli 

That  hour  beneatli  the  army's  winj^, 

AVhose  leader  taught  by  native  worth 
The  man  is  grander  than  tlie  king. 

The  stars  on  tliat  bright  azure  field, 

Wliieh  proudly  wave  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Were  fitly  taken  from  his  shield 
To  be  our  common  heraldry. 

We  need  no  trappings  worn  and  old, 
No  courtly  lineage  to  invoke, 

No  tinselled  plate,  but  solid  gold, 
No  thin   veneer,  but  heart  of  oak. 

No  aping  after  foreign  w^^ys 
Beconjes  a  son  of  noble  sire ; 

Columbia  wins  the  sweetest  praise 
When  clad  in  simple,  plain  attire. 

In  science,  poesy,  and  art. 

We  ask  the  best  the  world  can  give; 
We  feel  the  throb  of  Britain's  heart. 

And  will  while  Burns  and  Shakespeare  live. 

But,  oh !    the  nation  is  too  great 
To  borrow  emptiness  and  pride: 

The  queenly  Hudson  wears  in  state 

Her  robes  with  native  pigments  dyed. 

October  lifts  with  colors  bright 
Its  mountain  canvas  to  the  sky; 

Tlie  crimson  trees,  aglow  with  light, 
Unto  our  banners  wave  reply. 

Like  Iloreb's  bush  the  leaves  repeat 

From  lips  of  flanie  with  glory  crowned  : 

"  Put  off  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet, 
The  place  they  trod  is  holy  ground." 


TUE    MAK    IS    UUA>UEK    TUAiN    THE    Kl.N(i. 


The  Long  Drama. 


45 


"ALONG    ITS    HEIGHTS    THE    BEACONS    GLEAMED." 

O  fairest  stream  l)eiieath  the  sun! 

Tliy  Iligliland  portal  was  the  key 
Which  force  and  treason  wellnigh  won, 

Like  that  of  famed  Thermopylae. 


That  ridge  along  our  eastern  coast, 
From  Carolina  to  the  Sound, 

Opposed  its  front  to  England's  host, 

And  heroes  at  each  pass  were  found— 

A  vast  primeval  palisade, 

With  bastions  bold  and  wooded  crest, 
A  bulwark  strong  by  nature  made 

To  guard  the  valley  of  the  West. 


46  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Along  its  lieiglits  tlie  beacons  gleamed; 

It  formed  the  nation's  battle -line, 
Finn  as  the  rocks  and  cliflfs  where  dreamed 

The  soldier -seers  of  Palestine. 

These  hills  shall  keep  their  memoiy  sure, 
The  blocks  Ave  rear  shall  fall  away, 

The  mountain  fastnesses  endure. 

And  sj3eak  their  glorious  deeds  for  aye. 

And  oh !   while  mornino^'s  jjolden  nrn 
Pours  amber  light  o'er  purple  brim, 

And  rosy  peaks  like  rubies  burn 
Around  the  emerald  valley's  rim, 

So  long  preserve  our  hearthstone  warm ! 

Our  reverence,  O  God,  increase! 
And  let  the  glad  centennials  form 

One  long  millennial  of  peace. 


THE   TRIP   OF   THE   BELL. 

From  Northern  tide 
To  bayou  wide, 
With  homage  meet 
The  old  bell  greet! 
Uncovered  stand 
Through  all  the  land 
While  chimes  peal  out 
Its  royal  route ! 

King,  Baltimore! 
Thy  Ches'peakc  shore 
By  nobler  guest 
Was  never  pressed. 
With  loyal  pride 
Swell  free  and  wide 
Thy  cliorus  grand, 
"My  Maryland!" 

King,  Washington ! 
The  bell  that  won 
Triumphant  fame 
In  freedom's  name 
Waits  at  thy  gate 
In  sovereign  state. 
With  anthem  sweet 
Columbia  greet! 

King,  Kichmond,  ring! 
Warm  tribute  bring, 
Dominion  old, 
Where  patriots  bold 


48  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Oppression  spurned, 
With  words  that  burned 
From  Sumter's  strnnd 
To  Plymouth's  sand. 

Atlanta,  ring! 
Proud  steeples  swing 
With  welcome  note 
From  brazen  throat ! 
The  bell  salute 
Whose  lips,  now  mute, 
Bade  tyrants  cower 
To  freedom's  power. 

Ring,  !N'ew  Orleans! 
Fair  queen  of  queens, 
The  centuries  share 
Thy  reverend  pi'ayer. 
God  guard  the  bell 
Which  rang  so  well 
Our  nation's  birth 
And  manhood's  worth ! 


THE   CANDLE   PARADE. 

{Read  at  the  Eighteenth  Reunion  of  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  at  Saratoga 

Springn, \887.) 

[One  iiiglit,  aftci-  the  Army  of  the  Potomnc  had  returned  from  the  cnptnie  of  Richmond  to  its  okl  camp 
ou  the  hills  of  Alexandria,  a  company,  each  man  cairyinjj  ii  lighted  candle  iu  his  gun,  hegau  to  march  in 
sportive  processit)n.  Regiments  and  brigades  caught  the  spirit,  and  the  accumulated  supplies  of  candle  ra- 
tions were  soon  utilized  by  dancing  coUimns  wheeliug  and  wiudiiig  iu  every  direction  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.] 

Once  again  Potomac's  Army  answers  to  the  muster-roll; 
Once  again  the  old-time  music  thrills  the  soldier's  heart  and  soul. 
Hank  on  rank,  with  cheer  and  gladness,  rally  at  the  bugle -call 
On  the  field  of  Saratoga,  underneath  its  mountain  -  wall. 
Where  McGregor's  evening  shadows  fall  upon  the  crystal  tide, 
At  the  gate-way  of  the  cottage  where  the  nation's  h.ero  died  ; 
AV'here  the  streams  in  gentle  music  still  our  father's  requiem  chant, 
And  the  pine,  the  oak,  tiie  maple,  and  the  laurel  echo — Grant. 

Kame  revered,  that  clasps  great  rivers  evermore  in  loving  tliiall : 
Queenly  Hudson,  fair  Potomac,  Mississippi — king  of  all ; 
Rivers  three,  that  bind  one  nation  from  the  Gulf  to  Northern  lakes, 
From  the  Rockies  to  Virginia,  where  the  loud  Atlantic  breaks; 
Arms  entwined  and  interlocking,  holding  in  their  wide  embrace 
Sweeping  hills  and  lordly  mountains  of  the  Appalachian  race; 
Fertile  fields  and  rolling  ]>i'airies  with  their  wealth  of  floral   bloom. 
Plucked  and  borne  by  loving  fingers  to  the  loyal  Logan's  tomb. 

Fruit  of  gold  in  silver  pictures — waving  fields  by  rivers  framed  ; 
States  discordant  reunited,  love  and  land  and  fiag  reclaimed : 
Fruit  of  gold— a  century's  harvest,  in  war's  reaping  rudely  shorn — 
Garnered  heroes,  named  and  nameless,  swift  on  fiery  chariots  borne. 
Rest  in  peace  by  stately  rivers,  martyred  soldiers  of  the  free  ! 
Rest,  brave  captain,  at  our  threshold,  where  the  Hudson  meets  the  sea  ! 
4 


50  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

AVliile  Mount  Vernon's  sacred  portal  sentinels  Potomac's  waves, 
Mississippi  sends  lier  greetings  to  the  streams  that  guard  their  graves. 

Fair  Potomac!    dear  Potomac!    at  thy  name  what  memories  throng! 

Deeds  of  heroism  blazoned  in  a  nation's  art  and  song. 

Onward  sweeps  the  steadv  column  to  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum  ; 

Solid  phalanx,  proud  battalion;  see  the  sun -browned  veterans  come. 

Forward,  to  the  touch  of  elbow,  as  of  old  in  long  review : 

Missing  comrades  take  their  places  in  the  ranks  that  wear  the  blue. 

"On    to    Richmond!"    "On    to    Richmond!"    swells    the    old    familiar 

cry. 
"On  this  line" — you  know  the  context — comes  the  soldier's  brief  reply. 

Southward  now,  with  ranks  concentring,  reads  the  order  of  the  day, 

"Wilderness  and  Spottsylvania  marking  halts  along  the  way, 

Where   the  trees  are    mowed   with   bullets  —  brothers  battling  hand   to 

hand — 
Blue  and  gray,  with  kindred  courage  worthy  of  one  fatherland  ; 
Both  alike  in  silent  trenches  guarding  now  the  peaceful  scene. 
Waiting  till  the  morn's  reveille  wakes  the  camps  of  waving  green. 
Southward  still  across  N^orth  Anna,  thirty  miles  from  Rapidan  ; 
Southward,  by  the  left  flank  marching,  gallant  Hancock  in  the  van. 

How   each    message,  fraught    with    glory,  taught    a    listening   land    the 

names 
Of  the  Old  Dominion  rivers,  from  Potomac  to  the  James ! 
How  you  kept  the  "Dailies"  busy  with  their  topograjihic  maps — 
One 'eye  on  the  Shenandoah,  one  on  Sherman's  shoulder -strajis  ! 
Sheridan  in  rapid  orbit,  like  a  genuine  son  of  Mars, 
Sherman  on  the  outer  circle,  Saturn -like  among  the  stars; 
Here  and  thei'e  a  warlike  comet — dauntless  Custer,  dashing  "  Kil  ;" 
But  they  had  to  "get  up  Early"  to  compete  with  "Little  Phil." 

Who  can  paint  that  panorama,  clear  and  perfect  in  detail  ? 
Who  can  trace  the  telling  bullets  in   that  storm  of  leaden  hail? 
Who  can  twine  a  fitting  garland  for  each  dear  lieroic  name, 
Or  untwist  the  strands  of  glory  in  the  cable  of  our  fame? 
This  sufficeth  and  abideth — every  thread  is  firm  and  true  ; 
Homespun   texture,  double  woven,  colors  fast — red,  white,  and  bine; 


The  Candle  Parade.  ci 

Knotted  well  at  Appomattox,  tied  to  keep  the  threads  in  place, 
Never  more  to  be  unravelled  in  the  nation's  onward  race. 

Homeward    now   with    flaunting    banners,  every    heart    with    triuujph 

thrills; 
Homeward  to  the  old-time  quarters  on  the  Alexandria  hills. 
Once  again  a  thousand  camp-fires  on  the  wide  horizon  glow; 
Once  again  the  canvas  city  spreads  its  tents  of  drifted  snow  ; 
All  the  long,  fierce  conflict  over,  day  of  Jubilee  is  here  ; 
No  more  longing,  no  more  waiting — give  us,  boys,  a  song  of  cheer. 
Hail  the  bright- illumined  city,  with  its  crowning  dome  of  white! 
Hail  Columbia!  hail  Potomac!     All  the  land  is  free  to-night! 

What  is  that  along  the  hill -side?     See  a  hundred  twinkling  points 
Starting  up  and  gliding  slowly,  serpent -like,  with  glittering  joints. 
Mark  the  sweeping  curves  of  beauty  as  in  waving  lines  it  breaks, 
Holding  all  the  wide  encampment  in  its  folds  of  flery  flakes — 
Solid  squares  and  raidvs  of  twinkle  putting  phantasy  to  shau)e  ; 
Phosphorous    billows   in    the   darkness    gemmed    with   drifting  dots   of 

flame  ; 
Ghostly    folds    of    sable    serge -cloth    trimmed    with    glittering   golden 

braid  ; 
Spirit -lights  of  \veird  battalions  dancing  all  in   masquerade. 

You  remember  well  the  sombre  silence  of  that  vision  vast ; 

As  a  background  for  the  pageant,  all  the  sky  was  overcast. 

Then  upon  the  stillness  breaking  came  the  old  familiar  aii-s, 

Choral  links  of  home  and  camp -Are  treasured  in  a  nation's  prayers — 

"Home,   Sweet    Home"  and    "John    Brown's    Body,"   "Dixie-Land" 

and  "Old  Camp -ground," 
Swinging  symphonies  commingled  in  one  bright  bouquet  of  sound. 
Then  from  out  the  ruddy  petals  "Forward!"  came  the  order  shrill, 
And  the  visioned  scene  was  mortal — 'twas  the  famous  candle -drill. 

No  one  knew  just  how  it  started,  how  that  strange  parade  began. 
Emblem  of  the  nation's  genius  and  the  individual  man  ; 
Waiting  not  lieutenant's  order,  epaulette,  or  crimson  sash, 
Blending  in  the  ready  impulse  Saxon  grit  and  Gaelic  dash. 


5  2  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Here,  perhaps,  a  lighted  candle  in  a  musket,  just  for  play. 
Then  a  score,  platoon,  battalion — all  the  scene  is  under  way, 
And  the  chorns,  proiuUy  swelling,  stirs  the  heart  of  every  corps, 
"  We  are  coming.  Father  Abram,  fifty  thousand  candles  more." 

We  are  coming,  we  are  coming,  as  of  old  the  army  came — 
"Wide  Awakes"  and  "Little  Giants,"  in  one  lava  stream  of  flame, 
Knowing  but  one  common  duty  when  the  banner  was  defied. 
Stirred  in  every  nerve  and  fibre  when  the  gallant  Ellsworth  died. 
Steadfast    Lincoln,   Douglas    greets    yon    with    his    followers    tried   and 

true : 
"Keep  for  aye  the  nation's  honor,  all  the  stars  within  the  blue." 
Noble  hero !  generous  rival !    both,  alas,  too  soon  to  fall. 
Lincoln!    still    the   Douglas    greets    you,    "  Dinna    ye   hear    the   slogan 

call  ?" 

Not  more  quickly  sprang  that  pageant  from  the  silence  of  the  night 

Than  the  army  of  the  people  panoplied  in  freedom's  might; 

Not  more  swiftly   Concord's  message  Hashed  from   Boston's   Old   South 

spire ; 
Not  more  speedily  the  answer  to  Clan  Alpine's  Cross  of  Fire; 
Not  more  ready  Roderick's  followers  spi-inging  at  the  whistle  shrill, 
Than  the  loyal  yeoman  soldiers  starting  up  from  plain  and  hill. 
Not   more   quickly    Highland   claymores   sank    in    copse   and   heathered 

glen 
Than  the  grand  old  army  veterans  back  into  the  laud  again. 

"  One  from   many,"  reads  our  motto,  wider,  deeper  than  before — 
Not  of  states,  but  individuals — "We,  the  people,"  evermore! 
Tell  me  not  of  servile  soldiers  who  for  king  or  sovereign  died. 
Here    a    million    kings    and    sovereigns    marched    to    victory    side    by 

side ; 
Brothers  all  in  sacred  compact,  file  and  captain  equal  born  ; 
Comrade  answering  to  comrade,  waiting  for  the  promised  morn. 
P^ar  and  wide  each  gleaming  taper,  "  like  a  good  deed,"  shines  abroad, 
Till  the  flaming  heights  of  freedom  manifest  the  will  of  Cod. 

Hut  the  hill -side's  fading  beauty  tells  us  the  parade  is  o'er, 
Like  the  embers  of  the  camp- lire  dying  out  forevermore. 


The  Candle  Parade,  53 

Only  now  in  distant  windows  gleams  the  candle  tlirongh  the  night, 
And  the  camp -tires  change  to  tiresides,  with  their  cheery  visions  bright 
Streaming  out  into  the  darkness  past  the  lane  and  wicket -gate, 
Where  the  mother,  wife,  and  sister,  all  the  loved  and  loving,  wait. 
Glorious  land  to  live  or  die  for!     Let  Columbia  bend  her  knee 
As  she  grants  her  proudest  honors  to  the  soldiers  of  the  free. 


THE  SILENT  SOLDIER. 

[When  Grant  was  dyiu?,  a  ray  of  siiiiliglit  through  the  half-closed  shutters  of  his  room  fell  npon  Lincoln's 
piclnre.  leaving  the  General's  portrait,  which  hnng  beside  it,  iu  deep  shadow.  After  lingering  for  a  moment 
npon  the  brow  of  the  martyred  President,  it  passed,  at  the  instant  of  death,  and  played  upon  the  portrait  of 
the  great  General.] 

Fkom  gulf  to  lake,  from  sea  to  sea, 

The  land  is  draped — a  nation  weeps; 

And  o'er  the  bier  bows  reverently, 
Whereon  the  silent  soldier  sleeps. 

The  mountain -top  is  bathed  in  light; 

And  eastern  clili  with  outlook  wide — 
Its  name  shall  live  in  memory  bright — 

The  Mount  MacGregor,  where  he  died. 

A  monument  to  stand  for  aye, 

In  summer's  bloom,  in  winter's  snows; 

A  shrine  where  men  shall  come  to  pra}', 
While  at  its  base  the  Hudson  flows. 

A  humble  room,  the  light  burns  low; 

The  morning  breaks  on  distant  hill  ; 
The  failing  pulse  is  beating  slow ; 

The  group  is  motionless  and  still. 

Two  portraits  hang  upon  the  wall, 

Two  kindred  pictures  side  by  side — 

Statesman  and  soldier,  loved  by  all — 
Lincoln  and  Grant,  Columbia's  pride. 

A  single  ray  through  lattice  streams, 
And  breaks  in  rainbow  colors  there; 

On  Lincoln's  brow  a  glory  gleams 

As  wife  and  children  kneel   in  prayer. 


The  Siieiii  Soldier.  55 

A  halo  round  the  martyr's  head, 

It  lights  the  sad  and  solemn  room ; 
Above  the  living  and  the  dead 

The  soldier's  portrait  hangs  in  gloom — 

In  shadow  one,  and  one  in  light: 

But  look!   the  pencil -ray  has  passed, 
And  on  the  hero's  picture  bright 

The  golden  sunlight  rests  at  last. 

And  so,  thronghont  the  coming  years. 
On  both  the  morning  beam  shall  play, 

When  the  long  night  of  bitter  tears 
Has  melted  in  the  light  away. 


THE  HUDSON. 


Gray  streaks  of  dawn  are  faintly  seen; 

The  stars  of  half  their  h'ght  are  shorn; 
The  Hudson,  witli  its  banks  of  green, 

Lies  tranquil  in  the  early  morn. 

The  earth  and  sky  breathe  sacred  rest — 
A  holy  peace  too  sweet  to  break — 

A  spell  like  that  divine  behest 
Which  stilled  the  Galilean  lake. 

The  circling  hills,  with  foreheads  fair, 
Await  with  joy  the  crowning  raj's; 

All  nature  bows  in  grateful  praj'er; 

The  templed  groves  respond  with  praise. 

Ye  trembling  shafts  of  glorious  light. 

Dart  from  the  east  with  golden  gleam; 

Cleave  the  dark  shield  of  fleeing  Night, 
And  slay  her  with  your  arrowy  beam. 

Cities  and  hamlets,  up  and  down 
This  level  highway  to  the  sea, 

Along  the  banks  sit  gray  and  brown. 
Dim  shadows  musing  dreamily. 

Adown  the  river  sloops  and  shijis 

.Float  slowly  with  the  lazy  tide; 
And  round  the  bluiT  a  paddle  dips 

Where  once  the  stoim-ship  used  to  ride. 


The  Hudson. 

The  vision  widens  as  the  morn 

Sweeps  tlirough  tlie  portals  of  the  day 
Purple  and  rosj'  mists  adorn 

Mountain  and  hill -top  far  away. 


57 


II. 


The  Catskills  to  the  northward  rise 

With  massive  swell  and  towering  crest — 

The  old-time  "mountains  of  the  skies," 
The  threshold  of  eternal  rest; 


"and    round    the     BLUKK    a     I'ADULli    DU'S. 


WheEe  Manitou  once  lived  and  reigned, 
Great  Spirit  of  a  race  gone  by ; 

And  Ontiora  lies  enchained. 

With  face  uplifted  to  the  sky. 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

The  dream-land,  too,  of  later  days, 

Where  Rip  Van  Winkle  slept  in  peace, 

W^ rapped  np  in  deep  poetic  haze — 
A  twenty  years  of  sweet  release. 

Ay,  bnrning  years!    a  nation's  forge! 

To  wake  to  freedom  grown  to  more — 
To  find  another  painted  "George" 

Above  the  old  familiar  door. 

Throngh  summer  heat  and  winter  snow. 
Beside  that  rushing  mountain  stream, 

Just  how  he  slept  we  cannot  know; 
Perhaps  'twas  all  a  pleasant  dream. 

Mayhap  in  many  a  wintry  squall, 

Or  howling  blast,  or  blinding  storm. 

He  thought  he  heard  Dame  Gretchen  call. 
And  that  sutticed  to  keep  him  warm; 

Or  else  that  flagon's  wondrous  draught, 
Distilled  in  some  weird  eltin-land. 

Drawn  from  the  keg  old  Ilendrick  quaflfed. 
And  shared  by  all  his  silent  band. 

O  legends  full  of  life  and  health, 

That  live  when  records  fail  and  die, 

Ye  are  the  Hudson's  richest  wealth, 
The  frondage  of  her  history  1  . 


III. 


And  musing  here  this  quiet  morn, 
I  call  up  pictures  far  away, 

Of  fountains  where  thy  wave  is  l)orn, 
Of  rills  that  in  deep  shadows  play; 


The  Hudson. 


59 


Of     forest     trail,     and 

lake  and  stream, 
Rich    poems    bound    in 

green  and  gold, 
Whose      leaves     reflect 

the  autumn  gleam 
Ere      summer      months 

are  growinf'  old  ; 


"OR    ELSE    THAT    FLAGON's    WONDUOUS    DRAUGHT." 


Of  camp-fires  bright  with  dancing  flame, 
Where  dreams  and  visions  floated  free. 


6o  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

And  Rosalind,  with  Annie's  name, 
Interpreted  the  dreams  to  me  : 

Lake  Avalanche  Mith  rocky  wall, 

And   Henderson's  dark -wooded  shore, 

Your  echoes  linger  still,  and  call 
Unto  ray  soul  for  evermore. 

Tahawas,  rising  stern  and  grand, 

"  Cloud -snnderer,"  lift  thy  forehead  iiigh  ; 

Guard  well  thy  snn- kissed  mountain  land, 
Whose  lakes  seem  borrowed  from  the  sky. 

O  Hudson  !  mountain  -  born  and  free, 
Thy  youth  a  deep  impression  takes  ; 

For,  mountain -guarded  to  the  sea, 
Thy  course  is  but  a  chain  of  lakes. 

IV. 

And  not  alone  thy  features  fair, 

And  legend  lore  and  matciiless  grace, 

But  noble  deeds  of  courage  rare. 
Illume,  as  with  a  soul,  thy  face. 

The  Highlands  and  the  Palisades 
Mirror  their  beauty  in  the  tide  ; 

The  history  of  whose  forest  shades 
A  nation  reads  with  conscious  pride. 

On  either  side  these  mountain  glens 
Lie  open  like  a  massive  book, 

Whose  words  were  graved  with  iron  pens. 
And  lead  into  the  eternal  rock  ; 

Which  evermore  shall  here  retain 
The  annals  time  cannot  erase  ; 

And-  while  these  granite  leaves  remain, 
This  crystal  ribbon  marks  the  place. 


ii!l»¥vvt3^  '^\^u 


The  Hudson. 

Tlie  spot  wliere  Kosciusko  dreamed — 
Fort  Putnam's  gray  and  mined  wall ; 

West  Point,  where  patriot  bayonets  gleamed — 
This  open  page  reveals  them  all. 

From  Stony  Point  to  Bemis  Height, 

From  Saratoga  to  the  sea, 
We  trace  the  lines,  now  dark,  now  bright. 

From  seventy -six  to  eighty -three. 

We  celebrate  onr  hundredth  year 

With  thankful  hearts  and  words  of  praise. 


63 


^^}^^ 


"THE    bl'OT    WUKKE    KOSCIUSKO   DREAMED." 


64 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 


^f^' 


"WHERE  GEOFFREY  CRAYON   CAME  TO   REST. 

And  learn  a  lasting  lesson  here 

Of  trust  and  hope  for  coming  days. 


And  sweet  to  me  this  otlier  thought, 
And  more  than  fancy  to  my  mind  : 

These  grand  divisions,  plainly  wrought, 
In  human  life  a  semblance  lind. 


The  Adirondaeks,  childhood's  glee  ; 

Tlie  Catskills,  youth  with  dreams  overcast ; 
The  Iliglilands,  numhood  bold  and  free  ; 

The  Tappan  Zee,  age  come  at  last. 

O  Tappan  Zee!  with  ]ieaceful  hills, 
And  shmiijrous  sky  and  drowsy  air. 


The  Hudson.  65 

Thy  calm  and  restful  sj3iiit  stills 

The  heart  weighed  down  with  weary  care. 

Poeaiitic'o's  hushed  waters  glide 

Through  Sleepy  Hollow's  haunted  ground, 
And   whisper  to  the  listening  tide 

The  name  carved  o'er  one  lowly  mound. 

Fair  mansions  rise  on  every  hill, 

With  turrets  crowned,  and  stately  towers. 

Which  men  can  buy  and  sell  at  will  ; 
But  old  Van  Tassel's  home  is  ours  : 

A  quiet,  cosey  little  nest, 

Enshrined  and  loved  for  evermore  ; 
Where  Geoffrey  Ci'ayon  came  to  rest. 

When  all  his  wanderings  were  o'er. 

Thrice  blest  and  happy  Tappan  Zee, 

Whose  banks  along  thy  glistening  tide 
Have  legend,  truth,  and  poetr}- 

Sweetly  expressed  in  Sunnyside. 


VI. 


The  twilight  falls,  the  picture  fades  ; 

My  soul  has  drifted  down  the  stream  ; 
And   now,  beneath  the  Palisades, 

I  wonder,  "  Is  it  all  a  dream  ?" 

Jjelow  the  cliffs  Manhattan's  spires 

(ilint  back  the  su.nset's  latest  beam  ; 

The  bay  is  flecked  with  twinkling  fires  ; 
Or  is  it  but  "Van  Kortlandt's  dream  f 

Hark  !  Freedom's  arms  ring  far  and   wide  ; 

Again  these  forts  with  beacons  gleam  ; 
Loud  cannon  roar  on  every  side — 

I  start,  I  wake  ;    I  did  but  dream. 


66 


Old  Hovicstead  Pocjhs. 


"AND   NOW,   BENEATH   THE   PAMSADES, 


Deep  silence  'mid  these  glorious  hills  ; 

Dark  shadows  on  the  silver  stream  ; 
My  ver}'  soul  with  rapture  thrills  : 

"Is't  heaven,  or  earth,  or  but  a  dream  f 

Nay  !  true  as  life,  and  deep  as  love, 
And  real  amid  the  things  that  seem  ; 

For  Earth   below  and  Heaven  above 

rroclaim  "truth  stranger  than  a  dream." 


P;*;r,:r;;;5;^w*iiji 


l!:lllllil|i;.'!;(i:"liiT'l''l'ijHl'iii'i^iII!;):llll,il:i, 


^1 


-^^f^^Ni^m^^ttSif;'..' 


REMEMBRANCE. 

It  is  sweet  to  sit  at  evening, 

Wlien  the  west  is  rosy  red, 
And  to  think  of  friends  once  with  us, 

Of  the  living  and  the  dead. 

It  is  sweet  to  liear  at  midnight 
Music  stealing  through  the  air, 

As  we  feel  our  spirits  rising, 

Heavenward  borne  on  wings  of  prayer 

It  is  sweet  to  sit  by  moonlight 

Where  the  waters  laugh  and  play, 

While  the  sunny  days  of  childhood 
Pass  again  in  bright  array  ; 

Ever  fonder,  ever  dearer 

Seems  our  youth  that  hastened  by, 
And  we  love  to  live  in  memory 

When  our  fond  hopes  fade  and  die. 

Yes,  like  forests  tliat  seem  fairer 

When  the  leaves  their  freshness  lose, 

So  the  past,  those  leaves  now  fading, 
Tinged  with  memory  lovelier  grows. 
5* 


THE  FOREST  BALLOT. 

"When  the  trees  their  ballots  cast, 
And  the  forests  all  are  polled, 

Which  will  win  the  suffrage  vast — 
Crimson  leaves  or  leaves  of  gold  ? 

In  the  radiant  autumn  days, 

Silently  on  hill  and  wold, 
Through  the  amber- tinted  haze. 

Fall  the  leaves  of  red  and  gold — 

Leaves  that  keep  the  cruel  stain 
Of  the  blood  of  brothers  dead. 

Symbols  of  a  nation's  pain  : 

Count  them  sadly — leaves  of  red ; 

Leaves  that  hold  the  mellow  light 
Of  the  stars  on  banner -fold. 

Symbols  of  enduring  right: 

Count  them  gladly — leaves  of  gold  ; 

Emblems  those  of  dire  defeat, 

Eml)lems  these  of  courage  bold  ; 

Which  will  triumph,  which  is  meet — 
Crimson  leaves  or  leaves  pf  gold  I 

By  the  record  of  the  past, 
By  that  story  proudly  told, 

By  fair  freedom  won  at  last, 

Crimson  yields  to  loaves  of  gold. 


The  Forest  Ballot.  71 

By  the  faith  that  conquers  doubt, 

Right  will  triumph  as  of  old. 
See !     The  red  is  fading  out, 

Clearer  glow  the  tints  of  ijold. 

So,  when  all  the  leaves  are  cast, 

And  the  forest  vote  is  polled, 
With  a  suffrage  wide  and  vast 

Victory  crowns  the  leaves  of  gold. 


DECORATION -DAY. 

{Read  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  New  York,  1882.) 

Wk  deck  to-day  each  soldier's  grave, 

We  come  with  offerings  pure  and   white 

To  bind  the  brows  of  those  who  gave 
Their  all  to  keep  our  honor  bright. 

We  cannot  ])ay  the  debt  we  owe; 

They  gave  their  lives  that  we   might  live; 
Our  warmest  words  fall  far  below 

The  worship  that  we  fain  would  give. 

O  country !  fairest  of  the  free  ; 

Columbia! — name  forever  blest; 
O  lost  "Atlantis"  of  the  sea! 

Securely  anchored  in  the  West; 

Unfold  the  flag  their  hands  have  borne  ! 

The  shreds  of  many  a  well -fought  field; 
The  stripes  alone  are  rent  and  torn, 

Tiie  stars  are  there,  our  sacred  shield. 

Those  stars  are  ours  because  they  died, 
The  blue  is  dearer  for  their  sake, 

Who  sleep  on  many  a  green  hill -side. 
In  ranks  that  never  more  will  break. 

For  well  they  wore  the  color  true 
That  holds  our  constellation  fair, 

And  evermore  the  "Boys  in  Blue" 
Shall  have  a  day  of  rest  and  jirayer. 


Decora  Hon  -  Day,  7  3 

Yes,  inarU'red  heroes  of  the  free! 

We  kneel  beside  your  mounds  and  pray 
Tliat  God  our  nation's  ij^uard  may  be, 

And  comrade's  hope  from  day  to  day. 

O  dav  baptized  in   blood  and  tears! 

The  blood  was  theirs,  the  tears  are  ours; 
And  children's  children  through  the  years 

Shall  strew  their  graves  with  sweetest  flowers. 

And  May -day  garlands  all  in  bloom 

Will  quicken  other  verse  than  mine, 
And  decorate  the  soldier's  tomb 

From  Southern  palm  to  Northern  pine. 


MEMORIAL -DAY. 

{Read  at  Poughkeepm,  JV.  Y.,  1886.) 

I  COME  with  cliaplet  woven  new 

From  May -day  flowers,  to  fade  away; 

You  come  to-iiii^ht,  brave  boys  in  lilue, 
With  record  bright,  to  last  for  aye. 

Yet  all  I  have  I  gladly  bring 

With  heart  and  voice  at  your  command  ; 
I  only  wish  the  words  I  sing 

Were  worthier  of  your  noble  band — 

A  living  wreath  of  lasting  fame 

To  match  your  deeds  that  fill  the  world. 
Ah,  lyric  vain  !    each  hero's  name 

Is  on  your  banners'  folds  unfurled. 

Those  stars  are  there  in  setting  blue, 
Because  you  answered  to  the  call. 

We  bring  no  eulogy  to  you ; 

You  honor  us — you  won  it  all. 

And  what  avails  our  words  of  praise 
To  you  who  stand  as  in  a  dream 

On  guard  in  rugged  mountain  ways. 
In  camp  by  many  a  sluggish  stream  ? 

Among  tlie  clouds  on  Lookout  Height, 
AVith  Hooker  down  in  Tennessee; 

Again  the  i)oys  "  mit  Sigel  light," 

You  march  with  Sherman   to  the  sea. 


Alemorial-  Day.  <n  c 

Port  Hudson,  Vicksbnrg,  New  Orleans, 

Antietani,  Sliiloh,  Malvern  Hill — 
A  hundred  fields,  a  thousand  scenes 

The  moistened  lens  of  memory  fill. 

On  fields  with  Grant,  whose  grave  is  white 
With  flowers  from  many  a  distant  State, 

Through  many  a  long  and  weary  night 
You  learned  with  him  to  toil  and  wait. 

And  there  with  Hancock,  soldier  true. 

At  Gettysburg  you  held  tiie  line; 
No  nobler  heart  beneath  the  blue, 

For  him  the  nation's  flowers  entwine. 

Brave  captains,  noble  comrades,  rest! 

No  bugle -note  or  war's  alarms 
Disturb  your  sleep  on  Nature's  breast — 

That  silent  camp  of  grounded  arms. 

Your  ranks  are  thinner,  boys,  to-day 

Than  just  one  little  year  ago ; 
On  many  a  brow  a  touch  of  gray 

Anticipates  the  winter's  snow. 

And  fewer  comrades,  year  by  year. 

Shall  gather  summer's  kindly  bloom. 
And  fewer  brotliers  drop  the  tear 

Upon  the  soldier's  sacred  tomb. 

The  twenty  years  have  left  their  trace 

Since  you  returned  the  homeward  route; 

Twice  twenty  more  your  ranks  eiface ; 
The  boys  will  all  be  mustered  out. 

Who  kept  the  faith  and  fouirht  the  fiirht : 

The  glory  theirs,  the  duty  ours ; 
They  earned  the  crown,  the  hero's  right, 

The  victor's  wreath — a  crown  of  flowers. 


"VETERANS.'' 

{licad  of  the  Reunion  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Tirenty-eigJdh  Regiment  New  York  Stite 
Volunteers,  at  Hudson,  N.  T.,  1887.) 

One  word  on  our  lips,  and  but  one  to -day; 

One  word  in  our  liearts  as  we  gather  here, 
Enshrined  in  our  annals  to  live  for  a^'e, 

To  freedom  and  freemen  forever  dear. 

But  how  shall  we  utter  with  reverence  meet 

That  word  where  emotions  are  more  than  speech  ? 

Where  mart3'red  heroes  comrades  greet, 

Tiieir  answers  from  Heaven's  high  ramparts  reach  : 

Go,  speak  it  in  whispers  where  daisies  free 
On  a  million  mounds  with  dews  are  wet ! 

Herald  with  trumpet  from  sea  to  sea 

The  word  that  a  nation  will  not  forget ! 

Attune  it  to  music  that  thrills  the  soul 

With  old-time  fervor  remembered  yet! 
Tlie  smoke-stained  banner  again  unroll! 

The  stars  in  their  courses  will  not  forget. 

Engrave  it  in  marble  of  ])nrcst  white  ; 

In  granite  columns  its  letters  set ; 
Ay,  trace  it  with  pencils  of  living  light 

The  blue -domed  heavens  will  not  forget. 

These  walls  proclaim   it  in  glory;    behold! 

A  loyal   welcome  to  noble  sons; 
Through  floral  lips  to  brothers  bold 

One  word,  and  that  word — "  Veterans." 


"  Vefei'ansy  77 

We  bow  before  it  ;   onr  all  is  there — 

Our  flari:,  our  freedom,  our  laud  and  pride, 
Our  couutry's  fame  aud  promise  fair — 

The  world's  great  future  with  outlook  wide. 

For  that  banner  is  more  than  painted  gauze ; 

It  voices  the  hopes  of  a  thousand  years — 
A  registered  charter  of  sacred  laws, 

Full  covenant  purchased  with  blood  and  tears. 

You  know  its  value,  survivors  few — 

Three  hundred  now  of  a  thousand  then, 
Who  inarched  from  our  camp  in  proud  review; 

The  star -dotted  roll-call  read  again. 

Absent !     Sleeping  at  Camp  Parapet, 

On  Chalmette  field  and  at  Quarantine, 
With  salt-di'iven  spray  the  roster  is  wet, 

At  Port  Hudson's  dismal  and  wild  ravine — 

Where  brave  men  spoke  with  bated  breath, 

As  brothers  fell  in  that  murderous  blast ; 
Where  fate  shook  leaden  dice  with  death. 

And  cheeks  grew  pale  as  the  die  was  cast. 

A  black  steed  dashes  across  the  plain, 

With  foam -flecked  bridle  streaming  free, 
A  gallant  and  noble  soldier  slain, 

Your  leader  through  centuries  yet  to  be. 

Who,  fighting,  "fell  with  face  to  the  foe," 
And  sent  it  a  message  to  sorrowing  souls — 

Imperial  sentence  !    with  Spartan  glow. 

On  record  innnortal — our  brave  Colonel  Cowles. 

Ah,  well  we  recall  the  silent  street. 

When  that  horse  was  led  to  the  hero's  grave. 

With  army -cloak  on  saddle -seat. 

And  the  fla<r  that  he  save  his  life  to  save. 


78  Old  Ho7nestcad  Poems. 

And  well  we  remember  your  record,  boj's, 

In  tlie  years  that  followed  when  days  were  dark, 

As  through  the  Red  Sea  with  steady  poise 
Our  citizen  soldiers  bore  Liberty's  ark. 

And  children's  children  your  deeds  will  relate, 
And  cherish  3'our  memories  ever  dear, 

The  gallant  One  Hundred  and  Twenty -Eighth, 
Who  in  days  of  peril  answered — "  Here  !" 

Ay,  long  as  the  stately  Hudson  flows. 
Or  the  Catskills  sentinel -duty  keep. 

While  lloeleffe  Jansen  singing  goes. 

And  binds  our  counties  in  crystal  sweep  ; 

Till  the  fame  of  our  fathers  has  faded  away, 
Till  the  stars  of  the  old  dear  banner  set, 

Till  the  gold  of  the  sunlight  is  sprinkled  with  gray- 
Columbia  and  Dutchess  will  not  forget. 


OUR  NATION  FOREVER 

{Sung  by  si.v  thousand  wires  at  the  close  of  a   Union  Concert  of  Northern  ami  Southern 
Songs  in  the  Chautaxiqua  Amphitheatre,  1883.) 

HiNG  out  to  the  stars  the  glad  chorus  I 

Let  bells  in  sweet  melody  chime  : 
Iling  out  to  the  sky  bending  o'er  us 

The  chant  of  a  nation  sublime : 
One  land  with  a  history  glorious  ! 
One  God  and  one  faith  all  victorious  I 

The  songs  of  the  camp-fires  are  blended, 
The  i*sorth  and  the  South  are  no  more  ; 

The  conflict  forever  is  ended, 

From  the  lakes  to  the  palm -girded  shore. 

One  people  united  forever 

In  hope  greets  the  promising  years ; 

No  discord  again  can  dissever 
A  Union  cemented  by  tears. 

The  past  shall  retain  but  one  stoi'y — 

A  record  of  courage  and  love  ; 
The  future  shall  cherish  one  glory, 

While  the  stars  shine  responsive  above. 

With  emotions  of  pride  and  of  sorrow, 

Bring  roses  and  lilies  to-day; 
In   the  dawn   of  the  nation's  to-mori"ow 

We  garland  the  blue  and  the  gray. 
(Jne  land  with  a  history  glorious! 
One  God  and  one  faith  all  victorious! 


THE   YOSEMITE. 

Waiting  to-ni^ht  for  the  moon  to  rise 
O'er  the  cliffs  that  narrow  Yoseniite's  skies  ; 
Waiting  for  darkness  to  melt  away 
In  the  silver  light  of  a  midnight  day; 


"a    WORI.D'S    CATHEDU.VL,  with    WAM.S    S115LIMK 


Waiting,  like  one  in  a  waking  dream, 
I  stand  alone  by  the  rushing  stream. 
Alone,  in  a  temple  vast  ami  grand. 
With  spii'c  an<l  turret  on    every   hand  ; 


The  Yosemite.  8i 

A  world's  cathedral,  with  walls  sublime, 
Chiselled  and  carved  by  the  hand  of  Time ; 
And  over  all  heaven's  crowning  dome, 
Whence  gleam  the  beacon -lights  of  home. 

The  spectral  shadows  dissolve;    and  now 
The  moonlight  halos  El  Capitan's  brow  ; 
And  the  lesser  stars  grow  pale  and  dim 
Along  the  sheer -cut  mountain  rim; 
Till,  touched  with  uuigic,  the  gray  walls  stand 
J^ike  phantom  mountains  on  either  hand. 

Yet  I  know  they  are  real,  for  I  see  the  spray 
Of  Yosemite  Fall  in  the  moonlight  plaj', 
Swaying  and  trembling,  a  radiant  glow 
From  the  sky  above  to  the  vale  below ; 
Like  the  ladder  of  old  to  Jacob  given — 
A  line  of  light  from  earth  to  heaven. 

And  there  comes  to  my  soul  a  vision  dear, 
As  of  shining  spirits  hoveritig  near; 
And  I  feel  the  sweet  and  wondrous  power 
Of  a  presence  that  fills  the  midnight  hour; 
And  I  know  that  Bethel  is  everywhere, 
For  prayer  is  the  foot  of  the  angel  stair. 

A  light  divine,  a  holy  rest, 

Floods  all  the  valley  and  fills  my  breast ; 

The  very  mountains  are  hushed  in  sleep 

From  Eagle  Point  to  Sentinel  Keep  ; 

And  a  life -long  lesson  is  taught  me  to-niijht. 

When  shrouded  in  shadow,  to  wait  for  the  light. 

Waiting  at  dawn  for  the  morn  to  break 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Mirror  Lake  ; 
AVaiting  to  see  the  mountains  gray 
Clearly  defined  in   the  light  of  day  ; 
Reflected  and  throned  in  glory  lierc, 
A  lakelet  that  seems  but  the  vallev's  tear. 


82  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Waiting;    but  look!    the  Soutli  Dome  bright 

Is  floating  now  in  a  sea  of  liglit ; 

And  Cloud's  Rest,  glistening  with  caps  of  snow, 

Inverted  stands  in  the  vale  below, 

AVith  tow'ring  peaks  and  cliffs  on  high, 

Hanging  to  meet  another  sky. 

O  crystal  gem  in   setting  rare  ! 
O  soul -like  mirror  in  middle  air! 
O  forest  heart  of  eternal  love  ! 
Earth-born,  but  pure  as  heaven  above, 
This  Sabbath  morn  we  find  in  thee 
The  poet's  dream  of  purity. 

The  hours  pass  by  ;    I  am  waiting  now 
()\\  Glacier  Point's  o'ei'hanging  brow; 
Waiting  to  see  the  picture  pass. 
Like  the  fleeting  show  of  a  wizard  -  glass ; 
Waiting ;   and  still  the  vision  seems 
Woven  of  light  and  colored  with  dreams. 

IJut  the  cloud  -  capped  towers,  and  pillars  gray, 

Securely  stand  in  the  light  of  day  ; 

The  Temple  wall  is  firm  and  sure  ; 

The  worshippers  pass,  but  it  shall  endure, 

And  will,  while  loud  Yosemite  calls 

To  bright  Nevada  and  Vernal  Falls. 

()  grand  and  majestic  organ  choir, 

With  deep- toned  voices  that  never  tire! 

()  anthem   wi-itten   in  notes  that  glow 

On  the  rainbow  bars  of  Po-ho-no! 

()  sweet  "  Te  Deum"  forever  sung. 

With  spray,  like   incense,  heavenward  swung! — 

Th}'  music  my  soul  with  rapture  thrills, 

And  there  comes  to  my  lips  "The  templed  hills; 

Thy  rocks  and  rills,"  a  nation's  song, 

From  vallev  to  mountain  borne  along ; 


The  Yoscuiite. 


83 


AS   THY   GRANITE  -  WALLED   YOSEMITE. 

My  country's  temple,  built  for  thee, 
Crowned  with  the  Cap  of  Liberty  ! 


O  country  reaching  from  shore  to  shore ! 
O  fairest  land  the  wide  world  o'er  ! 
Columbia  dear,  whose  mountains  rise 
From  fertile  valleys  to  sunny  skies, 
Stand  firm  and  sure,  and  bold  and  free, 
As  thy  granite- walled  Yosemite. 


AD  ASTRA  PER  ASPERA. 

{liend  July  4,  1884,  at  Ottaica,  Kansas,  before  the  Chautauqua  Assembly  on  tfie  banks  of 

the  Marais  des  Cygnes.) 

What  mean  the  gladsome  bells  to-day, 

Which  on  onr  natal  morning  wait, 
And  greet  the  sunrise  on  its  way 

From  Boston  to  the  Golden  Gate  ? 
What  mean  yon  flags  that  rustle  free 

From  staff  and  spire  and  lofty  dome, 
And  proudly  float  o'er  every  sea, 

From  tropic  waste  to  Saxon  home  ? 

They  mean  the  triumph  of  a  race — 

A  race  that  made  old  Enghmd  new. 
Which  far  from  kindred  sought  a  place 

To  worship  God  with  conscience  true — 
A  handful  tossed   by  wintry  waves, 

A  struggle  on  a  desert  strand  ; 
Ask  what  they  mean  of  Plymouth  graves. 

And  Valley  Forge's  starving  batid. 

AVhat  do  they  mean  ?     Each  stripe  of  red 
Speaks  of  the  price  our  fathers  paid  ; 

The  blue  whereon  those  stars  are  spread 
•  Is  ours  by  holiest  offering  made. 

Their  fortune,  life,  and  sacred  name 
Are  woven  in   tliat  triple  dye; 

Their  deeds  are  consecrate  to  fame, 

The  "May-flower"  blossomed   in  July. 

They  mean  that  every  lasting  gain 

Is  won  through  struggle  flerce  and  long. 


Ad  Astra  per  Asp  era. 


85 


"■WHO  COMES  TO  TILL   THE   VIRGIN   SOIL." 


0* 


That  up  through  martyrdom  and  pain 
The  yearning  world  is  growing  strong. 

The  chosen  motto  of  your  State 

Prochiims  the  history  of  the  years — 


86  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

"Ad  Astra"  points  with  promise  great, 

"Per  Aspera"  means  through  toil  and  tears. 

Each  rustling  field  of  growing  corn 

Whispers  your  motto  near  and  far, 
Each  golden  stuhble  iiewlv  shorn 

By  scissored  knife  and  shuttled  bar, 
Proclaims  this  truth  and  something  more — 

With  honest  toil  all  war  shall  cease  ; 
The  scythe- wheeled  chariots  of  war 

Become  the  chariots  of  peace. 

Each  muscle  of  yon  moving  ti-ain, 

Each  engine  harnessed  in  a  mill, 
The  wires  which  make  one  throbbing  brain 

Of  all  the  land  wherein  we  dwell ; 
Each  whisper  'neath  the  ocean  vast 

To  other  realms  bej'ond  the  sea, 
Proclaims  the  struggle  of  the  past, 

The  promise  of  the  bright  to-be. 

"Per  Aspera!"     Years  of  patient  toil 

Which  rear  the  individual  man 
Who  comes  to  till  the  virgin  soil, 

And  make  sui)lin)e  the  primal  ban  ! 
By  manl)'  work  to  earn  his  bread, 

To  wipe  the  sweat- drops  from  his  brow! 
More  blest  than  king  with  crowned  head 

The  man  who  guides  the  pen  and  plough. 

f  What  does  it  mean — this  tented  grove, 

These  camps  that  slope  unto  the  stream? 
Arcadian   bliss  where  lovers  I'ove, 

And  quiet  haunts  where  scholars  dream  ? 
Where  music  lives  forevermore, 

And  joyous  song  and  sweet  refrain  '\ 
It  means  Chautaucpia  to  the  core — 

A  partnership  of  soul  and  brain. 


Ad  Astra  per  Asp  era.  %'j 

Tliese  vistaed  trees  with  open  halls, 

These  aisles  with  light  and  shadow  flecked, 
WJiere  Nature  rears  her  college  walls, 

With  rustling  vine  and  foliage  decked, 
Proclaim  that  truth  to  all  is  free, 

And  hope  and  everlasting  love — 
Free  as  the  brooks  that  chant  in  glee. 

Free  as  the  stars  that  shine  above. 

O  song  sublime  !    that  ever  floats 

Amid  these  leaves  from  year  to  year, 
AVith  soul  still  marching  to  the  notes 

That  rose  above  North  Elba's  bier ! 
Ring  out  the  fountain  and  the  stream 

That  washed  from  off  our  flag  its  stain. 
While  freedom  crowns  the  martyr's  dream 

Along  thy  banks,  Marais  des  Cygnes ! 


THE    WISCONSIN  WAE   EAGLE. 

TRUTH  STRANGER  THAN  FICTION. 
{Read  at  Monona  Lake  Assembly,  Madison,  Wisconsin,  1886.) 

There's  a  legend  in  Britain  a  thousand  years  old, 

That  King  Arthur  will  come  to  his  kingdom  again, 

To  form  a  pure  knighthood  of  Galahads  bold, 

And  restore  tlie  Round  -  table  once  more  among  men  ; 

That  his  spirit  still  hovers  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea 

In  the  guise  of  an  eagle  unfettered  and  free, 

Tlirough  sunshine  and  tempest  he  keepeth  his  way; 

Over  cities  and  deserts  his  wanderings  range  ; 
While  minsters  and  castles  have  gone  tq  decay, 

And  England  has  witnessed  vast  cycles  of  change. 
The  years  have  grown  dim,  but  the  prophecy  waits 
For  the  ea'gle  to  perch  upon  Camelot's  gates. 

You  smile  at  the  story,  you  call  it  absurd — 

A  tale  that  a  mother  might  sing  to  her  babe — 

But  wiiat  shall  we  say  of  Wisconsin's  proud  bird, 
The  Badger  State  eagle— ycleped  "  Old  Abe  f ' 

Why  laugh  at  the  legend  of  Albion's  youth. 

When  stranger  than  legend  or  liction  is  truth  ? 

We  live  among  wonders,  and  ask  nut  tlic  why. 

God  speaks  in  the  present  as  well  as  the  past ; 
The  ])illar  of  iii-e  still  Hames  in  the  sk}'. 

For  the  Cromwells  and  Zwingles  that  triumph  at  last; 
The  stars  in  their  courses  still  fight  in  the  van 
Of  freedom  and  progress,  the  triumph  of  man. 


The  Wisconsin  War  Eagle.  89 

Wlien  tlie  fair  SoiUlieni  sky  grew  black,  and  tlic  storm 
Of  dissunsion  and  strife  its  swift  thunder- bolts  hurled; 

"When  the  words  of  Calhoun   took  on   lojrical  form. 

And  tiie  stars  faded  out  from  our  banner  unfui-led  — 

Say,  whose  was  the  spirit  embodied  in  tiiee, 

"Old  Abe"  of  Wisconsin,  proud  bird  of  the  free? 

I  answer :    A  liero  whose  soul  never  swerved 

From  honesty,  liberty,  duty,  and  riglit ; 
AVho  knew  but  one  creed — a  Union  preserved, 

Enduring  forever  in  glory  and   might; 
I  answer,  with  reason,  that  Eagle  might  be 
The  spirit  of  Jackson  from  old  Tennessee. 

For  the  fathers  who  nurtured  Columbia's  life, 

And  watched  o'er  the  cradle  when  freedom  was  born, 

In  the  darkness  and  clamor  of  iiwvy  and  strife, 

When  realms  o'er  the  sea  pointed  fingers  of  scoi'u. 

Like  the  angels  of  Judah  our  leaders  inspired. 

And  the  heart  of  the  soldier  with  liberty  iired. 

K"^^  the  Pinckneys,  the  Sumters,  and  Eutlodges  came 

To  the  senates  and  councils  their  children  had  sjiurned  ; 

Took  the  old  vacant  seats,  though  called  not  by  name. 

And  their  pale,  phantom  cheeks  with  strange  ecstasy  burned; 

Their  presence  helped  mould  the  great  national  will, 

Until  AVashington's  hand  steadied  Abraham's  quill. 

Then  the  chief  of  Xew  Orleans  no  lonijer  could  rest — 

Devoted  to  countrj',  and  true  to  the  core — 
But  came  as  an  eagle — Wisconsin's  own  guest — 

And  "  \\y  the  Eternal "  Old  Hickory  swore : 
The  Father  of  Waters  shall  cease  flowing  south, 
Or  acknowledge  one  flag  fi-om  its  source  to  its  mouth. 

The  record   unfolds  with  its  chi'onicle  strange, 
Too  weird  for  belief,  yet  with  every  line  true; 

Xo  annal  like  this  through  all  history's  range — 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  the  story  are  new. 


90  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Who  guesses  the  riddle?     Ah,  Jackson  enshrined 
Is  the  only  solution  the  nation  can  find. 

You  remember  at  Corinth  the  eagle  on  high, 
Careening  and  circling  in  sulphurous  smoke, 

AVhen  the  Minie- balls  followed  his  flight  to  the  sky, 
To  the  hour  when   the  rebels  retreated  and  broke. 

How  liis  notes  stirred  the  hearts  of  our  glorious  band, 

And  his  wing  led  to  triumph  that  thrilled  all  the  land. 

We  have  heard  from  the  lips  of  the  boys  of  the  Eighth 
That  he  bore  a  charmed  life  in  the  van  of  the  fight, 

At  the  capture  of  Vicksburg,  where  Grant  kept  the  faith. 
And  saluted  the  eagle  that  greeted  his  sight. 

Perhaps  the  strange  bird  knew  Ulysses  would  be 

A  leader  revered  from  the  lakes  to  the  sea. 

Proud  eagle  !     Thy  fame  shall  forever  abide. 

When  the  centuries  float  from  flie  main -land  of  time; 

Ay,  live  while  the  ages  at  anchorage  ride, 

Till  the  clocks  of  the  world  peal  millennial  chime. 

Thy  mission  was  noble,  thy  record  is  gi'eat, 

Enshrined  in  the  love  of  the  bold  Badger  State. 


THE  SLAVE'S  PRAYER. 

We  had  tramped  tliroiigli  field  and  forest, 

O  the  long  and  dreary  way  ! 
With  the  stars  alone  to  guide  us, 

For  we  dared  not  move  by  day — 

Jack  and  I,  two  Union  soldiers, 
Just  escaped  from  prison  -  shed, 

Squalid,  ghastl)',  shoeless,  starving. 
And  no  place  to  ask  for  bread  ; 

Swimming  rivers  deep  and  swollen. 
Crossing  mountains  grim  and  dark, 

AVading  marshes,  crouched  in  thickets. 
Trembling  at  the  blood  -  hound's  bark. 

O  the  chill  nights  marched  in  silence, 
As  the  weeks  crept  slowly  past ; 

]^eagues  awa}^  the  Union  army, 

Wiiere  we  dreamed  of  rest  at  last. 

But  our  strength  was  wellnigh  broken. 
When,  one  night,  the  Lord  be  praised! 

Ilight  before  us,  through  the  pine-trees. 
Suddenly  a  camp-fire  blazed. 

Straight  we  turned,  but  stayed  our  footsteps, 

As  upon  the  evening  air 
Came  the  gentle,  broken  accents 

Of  a  heartfelt,  earnest  prayer. 


g2  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Drawing  nenrer  through  the  shadows, 
Creeping  close  from  tree  to  tree, 

There  a  wliite- haired  slave  was  kneeling, 
Asking  God  for  liberty. 

And  his  words  were  sweet  and  touching 
As  the  first  prayer  of  a  child, 

And  it  seemed  that  God's  own  presence 
Filled  the  forest  vast%nd  wild. 

And  the  "Amen"  that  he  uttered 
Seemed  to  echo  through  the  trees; 

But  it  might  have  been  our  voices, 
For  he  started  from  his  knees, 

And  he  glanced  in  fear  about  him, 
And  his  look  was  wild  with  fright. 

"Save  us!    we  are  Union  soldiers; 
We  implore  your  help  to-night. 

"Tell  us,  Where's  the  Union  army?" 
And  we  stood  before  him  there, 

Wan  and  ghost -like,  hardly  human. 
Haggard  phantoms  of  despair. 

Then  we  sat  and  told  our  story 
While  he  served  his  simple  food, 

And  the  moaning  pines  above  us 
Whispered  low  in  plaintive  mood. 

And  the  midnight  stars  were  shining 
Ere  we  rose  to  take  our  way. 

And  we  knelt — we  all  were  brothers — 
As  he  bowed  again  to  pray. 

From  that  heart  by  bondage  broken. 
From  that  son  of  toil  and  i)ain. 

Hose  a  prayer  more  true  and  tender 
Than   1  e'er  shall  hear  again. 


TIic  Slave  s  Prayer. 


93 


"CROSSING    MOUNTAINS    GRIM    AND    DARK. 

And  throughout  the  weary  marches, 

Through  long  niglits  of  care  and  fear, 

Those  sweet  words  were  ever  with  us, 
Filliuff  both  onr  hearts  with  cheer. 


And  we  reached  the  Union  Army, 

And  we  told  our  story  tliere, 
And  the  "boys"  were  hushed  and  breathless 

As  we  gave  that  old  slave's  prayer. 


KINDNESS. 

DEDICATED  TO  MRS.  JAMES   A.  GARFIELD. 

{Read  at  Uiram  Collerie,  Ohio,  1885.) 

The  fountain  gives  birth  to  the  stream, 

The  stream  glides  on  to  tlie  sea ; 
The  sun  looks  down,  and  its  beam 

Lifts  moisture  to  gladden  the  lea; 
The  hills  and  the  mountains  rejoice, 

The  valleys  with  deep  verdure  lined; 
One  chorus  the  elements  voice —    . 

With  love  every  law  is  entwined. 

The  rose  leans  over  the  brook. 

And  blushes  its  beauty  to  trace  ; 
The  waters,  entranced  in  a  nook, 

Deliijht  in  the  o;low  of  its  face. 
Then  onward  through  grasses  and  ferns 

The  rill  laughs  at  stones  in  its  way  ; 
New  charm  to  the  woodland  returns, 

The  mosses  are  jewelled  with  spray. 

There  is  nothing  that  lives  to  itself, 

Be  it  ever  so  near  or  so  far, 
From  the  weed  on  the  sea's  coral  shelf 

To  the  fleck  of  the  farthermost  star; 
No  atom  removed  or  estranged, 

No  minute  divorced  from  the  hours, 
Blind  force  is  to  sympathy  changed, 

And  each  link  is  enwoven  with  flowers. 


Kmd7iess. 


95 


S*^'*-' 


"^CiSVvW 


"THE    STREAM    GLIDES    ON    TO    THE    SEA." 


No  life  is  so  strong  and  complete 

But  it  yearns  for  the  smile  of  a  friend ; 
A  remembrance  is  always  more  sweet 

When  love  and  kind  wishes  attend. 
Yonr  red -lipped  roses  still  speak, 

Your  blossoms,  carnation  and  white — 
But  alas  !    my  tribute  is  weak ; 

I  bring  but  a  pansy  to-night — 

To  fade  ;  but  yonr  garlands  remain, 
Unwithcred  your  chaplet  survives; 


96  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

No  deed  can  be  idle  or  vain 

That  strengtliens  or  sweetens  our  lives; 

And  richer  the  token  to  me 

From  the  dear  alma  mater  of  one 

Revered  from  the  lakes  to  the  sea, 
Yonr  lover  and  brother  and  son. 

His  life  has  flowed  down  to  the  deep, 

His  record  enriches  the  earth, 
And  memory's  roses  shall  keep 

Their  bloom  where  the  stream  had  its  birth. 
The  voice  of  our  Garfield  is  still. 

But  the  word  of  the  man  cannot  die; 
His  courage  our  pulses  enthrill, 

Our  dreams  to  his  manhood  reply. 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

He  raised  his  voice — the  scornful  smiled, 
A  jeering  rabble  came  to  hear ; 

The  statesman  mocked,  the  mob  reviled. 
Pulpit  and  press  gave  little  cheer. 

lie  raised  his  voice — the  scoffer  frowned, 
Disciples  gathered  day  by  day; 

In  him  the  living  AYord  was  found, 

The  light,  the  life,  the  truth,  the  way. 

He  raised  his  voice — the  crowded  hall 
Answered  to  eloquence  and  right ; 

And  statesmen  heard  at  last  the  call 
Of  freemen  rising  in  their  might. 

He  raised  his  voice — the  shackles  fell. 
And  all  beneath  the  stai'S  were  fi'ee. 

Ring  out!    ring  out,  centennial   bell. 
The  living  fact  of  liberty  ! 


LONGFELLOW. 

Again  I  see  Inm  on  the  snnlit  lawn, 

As  in  the  May  -  day  of  that  final  year, 
With  brow  as  radiant  as  the  early  dawn, 

And  eye  transparent  as  the  heavens  clear. 
With  cloak  o'er  shoulder  thrown  in  careless  grace, 

He  stands  enframed  in  budding  flowers  and  trees, 
A  genial  Orpheus,  with  Olympian  face 

Forever  fanned  by  pure  Arcadian  breeze. 
Ah,  more  to  me  than  Prospero's  magic  isle 

The  paths  and  greensward  where  the  poet  dreamed  ; 
The  opening  blossoms  wooed  his  kindly  smile, 

The  expectant  flowers  with  richer  colors  gleamed. 
My  soul  still  clasps  the  warm  and  generous  hand 
Which  wields  the  sceptre  of  a  kingless  land. 


THE  LAND  OF    BURNS. 

Once  more  upon  the  Frith  of  Clyde, 
Once  more  upon  the  dancing  sea ; 
From  out  the  land-locked  harbor  wide 

Onr  Anglla  sails  riglit  merrily. 
Old  Arran  rises  on  our  right, 
Her  mountains  bathed  in  sunset  light  ; 
While  toward  the  coast  the  vision  turns. 
And  rests  upon  the  Land  of  Burns. 

The  western  sky  is  all  aglow; 

The  headlands  bold  are  touched  with  light ; 
Reflected  beauty  sleeps  below, 

Upon  the  waters  pure  and  bright. 
It  seems  indeed  a  fitting  eve 
Of  Scotia  dear  to  take  our  leave, 
And  in  a  sunset  hour  so  fair 
To  bid  "good -night"  to  Bonnie  Ayr. 

But  now  the  mountains  lose  their  gold, 
And  to  the  leeward  sink  from  view ; 

The  distant  coast  can  scarce  be  told — 
A  line  upon  the  ocean  blue ; 

On  Ailsa  Craig  and  Rathlin  Isle 

A  single  cloud  attempts  to  smile; 

And  toward  the  coast  the  vision  turns 

In  vain,  to  find  the  Land  of  Burns. 

Ruins  and  shrines  where  memories  sleep 
We  leave  behind  on  every  side ; 

Dumbarton's  walls  and  frowning  keep, 
AVhich  shield  the  beauty  of  the  Clyde; 


lOO 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Dnnedin,  darling  of  the  North, 
Wliose  castle  guards  the  winding  Forth, 
And  countless  others,  old  and  gray, 
Between  the  silver  Tweed  and  Tay ; 

Sweet  Ellen's  Isle  in  beauty  framed, 
lona's  shrine  and  dark  Glencoe, 

Fair  Melrose,  and  that  valley  famed 

Where  Ettrick,  Tweed,  and  Yarrow  flow- 


THE    15U1G    ()     UOON. 


They  all  come  back  this  summer  eve. 
As  we  of  Scotia  take  our  leave  ; 
But  more  than  all  fond  memory  turns 
And  rests  on  Ayr,  the  home  of  Burns. 


For  there  the  "Daisy"  was  uptorn, 
To  blossom  on  a  wider  field  ; 


The  Land  of  Burns.  loi 

And  there  the  "  Mousie,"  kindred  born, 

Was  first  to  poesie  revealed. 
The  land  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  there, 
The  cotter's  home,  the  evening  pr-ayei": 
To  these,  in  truth,  the  niejjiory  turns — 
To  these,  which  make  thrj  La.aci  of  .Biiriis,"  ;'■  ;  ;  ,■'•, 

And  there  his  genius,  Coila's  maid, 

In  middle  furrow  stayed  his  plough, 
And  left  her  lustrous  mantle  plaid. 

And  bound  the  holly  round  his  brow ; 
And  there  love  met  the  ploughman  bard, 
Ere  life  to  him  seemed  "  luckless  starred  ;" 
And  there  most  glorious  hopes  were  born, 
Ere  "Mary"  from  his  heart  was  torn. 

He  felt  "  misfortune's  cauld  nor'-west," 

And  saw  that  "  man  was  made  to  mourn  ;'' 

The  "Scarlet  Letter"  on  his  breast 
Was  never  in  concealment  worn. 

With  all  his  failings,  he  was  free 

From  shadow  of  hypocrisy  ; 

In  grief  he  always  felt  the  thorn. 

But  boldly  answered  scorn  with  scorn. 

It  seemed  his  mission  to  bestow 

On  humble  things  the  highest  worth  ; 
The  streams  that  by  his  "shieling"  flow 

Ripple  in  song  o'er  all  the  earth. 
The  littl.e  Kirk  of  Alloway 
Shines  forth  immortal  in  his  lay. 
And,  filled  with  witches,  takes  its  stand, 
The  ruin  of  his  storied  land. 

lie  hears  the  "  Tvva  Dogs  "  at  his  door 

Discuss  the  ways  of  human  life ; 
He  meets  with  "  Death  "  upon  the  moor. 

With  whom  old  "Hornbook"  was  at  strife; 


I02 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

lie  talks  familiar  with  the  "Deil," 
As  if  he  were  a  friendl}'  chiel  ; 
And  '' Uqly,  Fair"  upon   the  green 
c      Becofiii^i  a  Sunday  "  Halloween." 

'•"■ile'itikveJi'lfo  aVse  the  pointed  qnill, 

While  others  bowed  the  knee  to  power; 


UAKK     (iLK^COE. 


And  Scotland  owes  a  guerdon  still 

To  Burns,  who  left  her  fairest  dower 
It  was  his  wish,  "  for  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful   plan  or  hook  to  make  ;" 
And  evermore  the  pilgrim   tui'ns 
To  Scotia  dear,  the   Land  of   Hums. 


The  Land  of  Biirns. 

The  land  of  heatli  and   sliaf^<;y  wood 
To  liiiii  was  bathed  in  roseate  light ; 

He  knew  each  spot  where  heroes  stood, 
And  dared  to  battle  for  the  right. 

True  heroes  of  the  olden  time, 

Whose  names  still  ring  in  freedom's  chime. 

And  make  e'en  strangers  fondly  turn 

Unto  the  Held  of  Bannockburn. 

His  "Scots  wha  hae"  rings  out  more  clear 

Than  any  song  in  field  or  camp; 
And  others  rise  more  true  and  dear — 

"The  rank  is  bnt  the  guinea -stamp." 
For  there  are  grander  fields  to  fight, 
Where  man  proclaims  his  brother's  right ; 
And  Burns  of  poets  leads  the  van 
In  simple  trutli — that  man  is  man. 

That  little  "cottage"  thatched  with  straw 
Still  speaks  the  truth  he  loved  to  sing  : 


103 


THAT    LITTLE   'COTTAGE'   THATCHED    WITH    STRAW." 


I04 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 

A  glorious  manhood  free  to  a', 

Which  titles  could  not  take  or  bring. 
Mansions  of  rank  are  poor  indeed 
Beside  this  cotter's  lowly  shed, 
And  pride  is  humbled  as  it  turns 
To  cross  the  porch  of  Robert  Burns. 


"FOU    THERE  THK    'DAISY*    WAS    UPTORN." 


TO  A  PICTURE   OF  MARY  STUART. 

When  I  do  note  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes, 

And  think  that  they  have  long  been  sightless  dust; 
When  I  observe  the  warrior's  envied  prize — 

Helmet  and  corselet — thick  with  yellow  rust ; 
When  scutcheoned  doors  lie  prone  in  castle  halls, 

And  turrets  totter,  razed  by  ruthless  Time  ; 
When  panelled  brass  from  stately  column  falls, 

Well -graved  with  praises  writ  in  lofty  rhyme — 
Then  I  perceive  how  all  things  here  decay; 

That  this  wide  world  is  but  a  shifting  stage. 
Where  faith  and  love,  fierce  pride  and  passion,  play, 

And  narrow  lines  divide  the  fool  and  sage  ; 

Where  fame's  brief  candle  flickers  to  its  death, 
And  beauty's  reign  is  measured  by  a  breath. 


A   RALLY. 

{For  the  Scottish  Games  at  Lyndontille,  Caledonia  County,  TV.,  July  4,  1884.) 

The  Higlilanders  come  in  their  gay  plaided  tartan, 

The  music  of  Scotia  floats  free  on  the  air ; 
Come  over,  brave  lads,  from  Barnet  and  Barton, 

From  Mclndoe's  Falls  and  St.  Johnsbury  fair. 
Come  over  and  witness  the  games  of  a  nation 

Whose  prowess  is  noted  in  story  and  song  ; 
We'll  furnish  you  all  a  flne  "muscle"  collation  — 

Come  over,  and  bring  your  fair  cousins  along. 

Our  fathers  who  came  here  were  fresh  from  the  heather, 

Our  county  still  bears  the  old  name  of  the  Gael ; 
So  up  wi'  the  bonnet  and  bonnie  blue  feather, 

Sit  down  by  our  table  and  eat  of  our  kail. 
Welcome,  ay  welcome,  dear  clansmen  and  brithers  ! 

Hark  to  the  bagpipe,  and  answer  the  ca' ; 
Come  wi'  your  wives,  your  sisters,  and  mithers. 

We'll  meet  you  and  greet  yon,  and  welcotne  you  a' ! 

Come  from  the  valleys,  the  hills,  and  the  mountains; 

Gather  as  gathered  your  fathers  of  old  — 
From  clear  northern  lakes  and  bright  crystal  fountains, 

The  half  of  whose  beauty  has  never  been  told. 
Kally,  like  true,  loyal  Scottish  descendants, 

Over  the  Border,  and  answer  the  ca' ! 
And  twine  round  this  day  of  Supreme  Independenco 

The  bluebell,  the  heather,  the  thistle  and  a'  ! 


"sit  down  by  our  table  and  eat  of  OUn  KAIL." 


i-A 


THE  PIONEERS. 

{Read  at  the  One  Hundredth  Annivermry  of  the  Seotch  Settlers  at  Be  Fatu'dk  Spriiirjx. 

Florida,  1886.) 

From  lands  of  sunrise  far  away, 

From  Jural  cliffs,  from  Caspian  shore, 

From  Sej'thian  deserts  waste  and  gray, 
From  rose -decked  Persia's  floral  floor, 

One  race  has  kept  the  western  trail — 

The  bonnie,  bra w,  warm-hearted  Gael: 

The  sturdy  Gael  who  came  from  far, 

Led  onward  by  the  morning -star. 

By  many  a  stream  their  footsteps  strayed. 
From  Indus  to  the  Elbe  and  Rhine, 

Before  their  ruddy  children  played 
By  Bonnie  Doon  or  crystal  Tyne. 

The  music  of  Arabian  rills 

Finds  echo  in  old  Scotia's  hills; 

The  Oriental  thread  remains 

In  warp  and  woof  of  Gaelic  strains. 

Onward  and  onward  year  by  year, 

By  Thracian  fields,  by  Bosporus  straits. 

Through  stormy  seas  their  barks  they  steer 
Beyond  Gibraltar's  frowning  gates  : 

Impelled  to  seek  the  farthest  shore 

Before  their  wanderings  are  o'er, 

Still  onward,  till  before  them  lie 

The  Orkneys  and  the  Isles  of  Skye. 


I  lO 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 


"to  bleak  iqna's  pebbled  strand." 

They  catne — the  pioneers  of  truth — 

To  bleak  Zona's  pebbled  strand, 
Bright  guardians  of  fair  Albion's  youth, 

The  founders  of  a  noble  band  ; 
From  out  whose  loins  sprang  martyrs  brave, 
Wiio  gave  their  all  their  faith  to  save — 
The  men  who  faced  a  living  lie, 
And  for  God's  glory  dared  to  die. 


They  came — the  pioneers  of  song. 

Of  courtly  grace  and  minstrel  art, 
With  lyric  fire  that  slumbers  long. 

Then  bursts  like  Etna's  liquid  heart, 
And  overflows  the  human  bounds 
Of  thought  with  sweet  seraphic  sounds : 
Like  notes  that  stray  from  realms  above- 
Electric  sparks  of  Heavenly  love. 


The  Pioneers.  1 1 1 

The}''  came — fair  freedom's  pioneers, 

Nor  cared  for  king  nor  tyrant's  frown  ; 

No  nobler  record  through  the  years 

Since  Gideon's  sword  was  lianded  down. 

They  saw  the  individual  man 

In  Celtic  sept,  in  Highland  clan, 

And  from  their  hill -tops  floated  free 

The  thistle-down  of  liberty. 

The  "bairn,"  beside  whom  Ilagar  wept, 

Oi'dained  a  liardy  race  to  rear, 
Uncradled,  but  by  angels  kept — 

A  motherhood  forever  near  ; 
The  archer  lad  of  deserts  wild 
Anticipates  the  Gaelic  child. 
And  leads  our  souls  on  fancy's  wing 
From  Paran's  fount  to  Fillan's  spring. 

O  Gaelic  fathers,  yours  and  mine. 

Who  came  from  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
Kejoicing  still  in  Auld  Lang  Syne, 

We  bow  to  thee  with  reverend  knee ! 
Proud  of  thy  faith  and  lofty  fame. 
Proud  of  each  bright  and  honored  name, 
Onr  hearts  respond  with  rapturous  thrill— 
"  Hail  to  the  chief  !"     Clan  Alpine  still ! 

And  here's  a  hand  by  Funiak  Spring, 

To  Macs  and  Campbells  all  in  line. 
And  all  that  Gaelic  love  can  bring 

Unto  this  bright  and  crystal  shrine! 
While  Katrine's  lapsing  waters  smile, 
And  kiss  the  sands  of  Ellen's  Isle, 
So  long  will  loval  hearts  beat  true 
Beside  De  Funiak's  waters  blue. 


A   STAR -EYED   DAISY. 

SAX   MARCO,  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 
(  Tn-centeiinial  Anniversary,  1886. ) 

Ensigns  of  empires  flaunt  thy  flanking  wall, 
Grim  ancient  warders  guard  tliy  storied  gate, 
Loud  Babeled  centuries  at  thy  bastions  wait 

On  Spanish,  French,  and  Englisli  seneschal. 

llich  yellow  folds  of  Castile's  haughty  state, 
Fair  Fleur  de  Lys  from  proud  Parisian  hall, 
St.  George's  Cross  triumphant  o'er  them  all. 

Recall  long  ^-ears  of  fierce  and  bloody  hate. 

But  now  the  star -eyed  daisy  lifts  its  form 
From  crevice,  chink,  and  crumbling  parapet, 

AV^ithout  one  stain  of  battle's  crimson  storm 
On  snowy  leaf  with  golden  petal  set : 

Bright  banneret  which  Nature  kindl)'  rears. 
To  deck  with  light  the  mould  of  bitter  years. 


A   TENNESSEE   TOAST. 

{Read  at  Monteagle  Assembly,  Moniearjle,  Tenn.,  1884.) 

Once  more  on  the  green  -  crested  mount, 
Where  the  breezes  of  summer  blow  free, 

I  drink  from  th)'  clear -flowing  fount 
A  wassail,  Monteagle,  to  thee. 

I  come  with  a  pledge  and  a  toast. 

In  response  to  your  welcome  to  me. 

As  a  guest  to  a  warm  -  hearted  host — 
Here's  a  "  health  "  to  old  Tennessee  ! 

Drink  deep  !   for  the  grasp  of  your  hand 
Remembered  and  treasured  shall  be ; 

Your  Cumberland  Mountains  shall  stand 
As  brothers  and  cousins  to  me. 

They  seem  like  my  own  Highland  ridge, 

Where  the  Hudson  flows  down  to  the  sea, 

Whose  sunsets  the  distance  shall  bridge, 
And  remind  me  forever  of  thee. 


THE  CLUB  OF  TAHAWAS. 


"ONCE    MORE    ON    THE    SHORE    OP    THE    UPPER    AU8ABLE. " 

Once  more  on  the  shore  of  the  Upper  A  usable 
Wc  gather  to-night — the  "Kniglits  of  the  Table," 
With  purple -peaked  mountains  above  and  below  us, 
To  drink  to  the  "health"  of  the  Club  of  Tahawas. 


Unloosen  the  knapsack,  and  ring  out  a  chorus 
To  brothers  and  friends  who  have  been  here  before  us 
With  greeting  to  streamlet  and  cascade  that  know  us. 
We  miiiirle  our  son<:  with  the  voice  of  Tahawas. 


The  Club  of  Tahawas.  1 1 

Tiie  clan -word  is  sounded,  the  camp-fires  are  burning; 
Tahawas!    Taliawas !    your  sons  are  returning. 
Hark!  hear  the  response!    ay,  the  Gotliics  liurrah  us. 
And  welcome  their  children,  the  Club  of  Tahawas. 

It  was  here  we  were  reared  in  our  earliest  chiklhood. 
In  Panther- Gorge  Lodge — darkest  glen  of  the  wildwood, 
In  deep  forest  shadows  ere  "Mountain  Phelps"  saw  us: 
A  pledge,  boys,  to  Sky -light,  high -priest  of  Tahawas. 

Three  cheers  and  a  tiger!     Hurrah  for  the  mountains! 
For  Golden  and  Feldspar — the  Hudson's  clear  fountains! 
Love's  loadstone  magnetic  forever  shall  draw  us 
To  bow  in  thy  worship,  wide -ruling  Tahawas! 

There  is  drouth  in  our  canteens,  ye  knights  of  blue  flannel  ; 
Dip  full  to  the  brim  from  the  pebble- white  channel; 
Then  up  with  the  cup,  and — "  May  catamounts  claw  us 
The  day  we  forget  thee,  dear  Club  of  Tahawas!" 


AN   ISLAND   FANCY. 

(Read  at  the  Idand  Park  Assembly,  Island  Park,  Iiul,  1885.) 

Which  is  the  fairest  of  Shakespeare's  girls — 

The  brightest,  the  dearest  of  all  his  train, 

That  shook  to  the  breeze  their  dancing  curls 

In  the  sweetness  and  spring- tide  of  beauty's  reign? 
Shall  I  answer  you  ?     Portia,  in  Belmont's  bower  ? 
Or  fair  Imogen  in  her  Warwick  tower? 
Dear  Jessica,  Rosalind,  Isabel  ? 
Nay,  answer  3'ourself ;   I  cannot  tell. 

But  which  would  you  name  for  your  wedded  choice? 

Pray,  which  w^ould  3'ou  marry  ?   tell  me  that  : 
Cordelia  true,  with  her  gentle  voice  ? 

Sweet  Anne  Page,  in  her  Stratford  hat? 
Fond  Juliet,  gazing  at  trembling  stars 
From  balcony,  casement,  and  lattice  bars  ? 
Would  you  rather  be  her  Romeo, 
Or  somebody's  else  ?     I  hardly  know. 

For  I  like  the  moonlight  on  Belmont's  bowers, 

And  the  Annies  that  wander  by  Avon -stream, 
And  the  maiden  of  Warwick's  cloud-capped  towel's, 

And  the  Capulet  gardens  where  lovers  dream. 
But  which  would  I  marry  ?    Which  would  you  ? 
First  tell  n)e  the  rainbow's  loveliest  hue. 

Ah  !    life  would  be  of  Heaven  a  lease 
With  Yiola,  Celia,  or  ]>eatrice. 

But  answer  me  truly !     AVell,  dearer  than  all, 
Than  Perdita,  Hero,  or  Hcrmione, 


An  Island  Fancy. 


119 


"and    TITK    ANNIES    THAT    WANDER    BY    AVON  -  STREAM. " 


Is  lovel}'  Miranda  in  Prosperous  luill, 

In  bright  sunny  island  far  out  in  the  sea  : 
Miranda  the  peerless,  the  sweetest,  the  best,  ;  ,,       .   • 
In  magical  island  far  out  in  the  west,         '.'.'•;.    .    . 

Where  waves  break  in  beauty  on  sun-tintHi^'^btrand- 
If  I  am  mistaken,  then  ask  Ferdinahd.  * '  ' 


Which  is  the  fairest  of  all  who  came 

At  the  word  of  the  conjurer,  Walter  Scott? 

Princess  and  lady  of  titled  name. 
Lassie  and  maiden  of  lowly  lot? 


I  20  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Editli  Plantagenet,  royal  by  birth  ? 
Catherine  Glover,  the  fair  maid  of  Perth  ? 

Brave  Jennie  Deans,  witli  lier  eloquent  prayer? 

Eveline  Beringer,  Constance  or  Clare? 

Which  would  I  marry?     Edith  of  Lorn? 

Rose  of  Bradwardine,  gentle  and  mild? 
Brave  Alice  Bridgnorth,  Puritan  born  ? 

Or  bright  Alice  Lee,  the  Cavaliers  child  ? 
Rebecca,  Rovvena,  or  Julia  the  fair? 
Edith  Bellenden,  with  King  Ciiurles's  chair? 

Saxon  or  Korman  or  Jewess?     Ah  me! 
Thrice  happy  to  win  any  one  of  the  three. 

But  is  there  no  choice?     Well,  dearer  to  me 

Than  Flora  Mclvor  of  lineage  high, 
Than  Bertlia,  who  sailed  over  many  a  sea 

To  find  her  bold   Ilereward  'neath  sunnier  sky; 
Than  Robert's  Brenhilda  of  Normandy's  soil, 
Or  the  radiant  daughters  of  bluff  Magnus  Troil — 

Fair  Brenna  and  Minna  who  dwelt  by  the  sea, 
There  is  one  of  the  "  Galaxy  "  dearer  to  ine. 

Ay,  dearer  tlian  all  who  have  passed  in  review. 
Than  heart-broken  Amy  or  sweet  Eveline, 
Than  hoyden  Die  Yernon,  with  eyes  gray  or  blue, 

Is  true  Ellen  Douglas  of  bonnie  Katrine; 
And  sunlight  and  moonlight  in  transport  shall  smile 
For  years,  ay,  forever,  on  fair  Ellen's  isle. 

Ah,  happy  that  island  to  bear  her  sweet  name ! 
"I  •'".         ,  .If  I  viin' mistaken,  then  ask  Malcolm  Graeme. 

•.\  i  ;/:W:ln'c'h;is  tbe/besf'  of  Chautauqua's  girls — 

The  sweetest,  the  loveliest  daughter  of  all. 
From  the  wavelet  that  ]>lays  over  India's  pearls 

To  the  gate -way  that  arches  South  Framingham's  hall? 
Is  it  Ottawa,  Kansas,  by  Marais  des  Cygnes? 
Or  Lakeside,  Monona — pray  which  is  the  queen  ? 
Waseca,  Monteagle,  De  Funiak  Lake? 
Sweet  visions  of  beauty — say,  which  would  you  take  ? 


All  Island  Fancy. 


121 


1ii||lipiii!li,!f"!':li»*l  ,, 

"THE    FAIREST,    THE    BRIGHTEST,    THE    SWEETEST    IS    HERE." 


Do  you  tell  ine  the  answer  is  easy  and  clear? 

(There's  logic  in  all  things,  and  should  be  in  this.) 
The  fairest,  the  brightest,  the  sweetest  is  here — ■ 

There  must  be  an  island  for  absolute  bliss. 
You  spoke  of  Miranda's  and  fair  Ellen's — hark  I 
Did  I  hear  some  one  mention  the  name  "Island  Park?" 
An  island  enchanted,  in  loveliness  set — 
You  may  be  mistaken — ask  Doctor  Gillet. 


TULIPS. 

"Where  grows  the  flower,  and  what's  its  name, 
That  blooms  in  winter  and  summer  the  same? 
The  language  of  which  some  say  is  true. 
Some  say  is  false  ;  now  what  say  you  ? 

Pray  sing  not  of  florals  that  wither  and  fade 
When  crimson  and  gold  on  the  woodlands  are  laid. 
And  Autumn  unfurls  on  the  deep  mountain -side 
His  banners  rich -woven  and  brilliantly  dyed. 
One  flower,  and  one  only,  earth's  frost  never  nips 
On  hill -side  or  valley — the  sweet  two -lips. 

In  fairest  of  gardens,  in  nooks  growing  wild, 
In  cold  Arctic  climes  where  the  rose  never  smiled. 
Where  bright  waters  flow,  where  soft  breezes  blow. 
In  lands  that  are  wrapped  in  perpetual  snow, 
They  bloom  in  rich  beauty,  for  sunlight  or  shade 
Despoils  not  their  sweetness,  nor  makes  them  to  fade ; 
And,  furthermore,  reader,  this  also  is  true — 
Whenever  they're  pressed  they  blossom  anew. 


A  HOLLAND   BRICK. 

FROM  THE  OLD  RENSSELAER  HOUSE,  GREENBUSH,  N.  Y. 

O  JOLLY  brick,  with  kindly  wrinkled  face, 
With  rnddj^  cheek  and  hospitable  look, 

Bj  Knickerbocker  j'oii  sliall  have  a  place, 

And  on  luy  mantle  stand,  my  quaintest  book. 

Epitome  of  hearty,  happy  days, 

When  even  bricks  were  lionest,  good,  and  true ; 
A  gentle  hnmor  o'er  your  visage  plays — 

Witli  heart  and  hand  I  gladly  welcome  you. 

For,  truth  to  tell,  I  like  old  Holland  well. 

As  did  my  sires  en  route  to  Plymouth  Rock  ; 

Ay,  Dutch  Reformed  pealed  out  the  wedding- bell- 
My  better  half  's  from  good  old  Holland  stock. 

Her  thanks  with  mine  for  cherished  antique  gift; 

It  comes  fire -proof,  to  Holland  lovers  pat; 
I'm  glad  it's  heavier  than  my  wife  can  lift, 

And  just  too  big  to  fit  my  Sunday  hat. 


PAEIS  TO  HELEN. 

Imtkrial  beaut\',  born  for  Ilium's  blight  ; 

Sweet,  winsome  Helen,  paragon  of  earth  ; 
Would  that  our  flocks  were  still  on  Ida's  height, 

And  princely  halls  uneniptied  of  their  mirtli ! 
Alas  !    proud  Troy  is  tottering  to  her  fall ; 

Our  promised  jojs  ai'e  steeped  in   bitter  pain  ; 
Kinsmen  and  Greek  in  deep  derision  call. 

And  every  eye  speaks  loathing  and  disdain. 
Dear  bribe  of  Venus !    why  were  we  beguiled 

By  Cyprian  words  to  walk  in  devious  ways, 
And  leave  our  names  as  synonymes  reviled 

Forevermore  through  unforgiving  days? 
O  fruitless  passion,  wt)n  at  honor's  cost ! 
Faith,  courage,  glory — all  forever  lost. 


TO   B.  T.  VINCENT. 

(Read  at  the  Lakeside  Assembly,  Lakeside,  Ohio,  1883.) 

From  village  homes  and  rustling  trees, 
From  city  walls  and  marts  of  trade, 

From  fields  that  whisper  to  the  breeze. 
We  meet  beneath  this  woodland  shade. 

From  distant  States,  from  many  a  land, 
From  realms  refiecting  India's  sun, 

Before  one  common  shrine  we  stand. 

Where  truth  and  faith  and  hope  are  one. 

With  joj'fnl  heart  and  open  hand 

We  welcome  yon  from  o'er  the  sea ; 

Each  breaking  wave  on  Lakeside's  strand 
Unites  to-day  in  greeting  thee. 

We  know  that  words  are  idle  all 

To  speak  what  every  heart  would  say, 

For  over  all  this  rustic  hall 

The  "lilies"  bloom  for  you  to-day. 

Our  lifted  hands  with  lovingr  cheer 

From  heart  to  heart  the  message  pass; 

Our  eyes,  between  a  smile  and  tear, 
Become  the  souTs  reflecting  glass; 

And  hark  !  above  the  beating  wave, 
Above  our  broken,  fleeting  rhyme, 

The  bells  peal  out  an  anthem  brave. 

And  sweetly  chant  your  fiftieth  chime. 


I  26 


Old  Homestead  Poems, 


"EACH    BREAKING    WAVE    ON    LAKESIUES    STRAND." 


They  wish  jon  joy  and  liope  and  peace, 
Their  trembling  lips  onr  hearts  express, 

In  music  sweet  that  shall  not  cease, 

But  blend  with  Heaven's  own  happiness. 


TO  J.  H.  WARREN, 

SUPERINTENDENT   OF   MONTEAGLE   ASSEMBLY,  MONTEAGLE,  TENN. 

I've  often  thought,  throughout  the  year, 
Of  yon  and  of  your  "wilie"  dear; 
So  I  was  ghid  once  more  to  hear 

Your  "  Cotne  again  ;" 
And  I'll  be  there,  you  needn't  fear, 

By  early  train. 

I'll  bring  along  sweet  Irving's  dreams, 

Yosemite's  bright  dashing  streams, 

The  Trosachs  wild  where  Katrine  gleams; 

And  I  have  knit 
A  lot  of  stories  in  the  seams 

Of  "  Ready  Wit." 

I  think  you'll  like  the  bonnie  crew. 
The  visions  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  legends  old,   the  stories  new. 

Drawn  up  in   line, 
And  greet  them  all  with  welcome  true, 

For  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

I  knew  the  topics  must  be  grand 
To  fit  your  noble  mountain -stand. 
So  I  have  looked  on   every  hand 

For  subjects  high, 
To  suit  your  famed  Monteagle  -  land 

So  near  the  sk3\ 

I'd  like  to  come  your  opening  day, 
And  would,  if  I  could  have  my  way ; 


128  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

But  I'tn  a  thousand  miles  away, 

"With  no  balloon 
To  float  nie  through  the  morning  gray 

Like  witch  o'  Doon. 

rd  risk  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter  ride, 
With  Kannie  flitting  at  my  side, 
Above  the  kirks  and  mountains  wide, 

To  see  you  all. 
And  leave  my  Meggie  safely  tied 

In  Warren's  stall. 

But  locomotion  through  the  stars 
On  broomstick  steeds  and  tilting  bars 
Has  been  transferred  to  dusty  cars ; 

The  more's  the  pity : 
The  witches  all  were  sent  to  Mars 

From  Salem  City. 

So  I  must  take  the  modern  way — 
Five  cents  a  mile  in  Pullman's  gay; 
Or,  better  still,  if  you  will,  pray 

Please  send  a  pass  ; 
The  witches  had  the  deil  to  pay. 

With  cheek  of  brass. 

Since  last  I  met  you  I  have  seen 
A  hundred  hills  in  crystal  sheen, 
A  thousand  fields  of  waving  green 

Bound  up  in  sheaves. 
And  tints  that  crown  Columbia  queen 

Of  golden  leaves. 

And  now  with  news  from  Lakeside  fair. 
From  bright  Waseca's  bracing  air. 
From  Island  Park,  sweet  nestled  there 

In  Iloosier  State, 
From  Kansas  fields,  beyond  conjpare, 

With  promise  gi'eat ; 


To  y.  H.  Warren.  129 

From  Lake  de  Funiak's  land  of  pine, 
From  sweet  Monona's  crystal  shrine, — 
All  tendrils  of  Chaiitanqiia's  vine, 

And  loving  feast, 
I  come,  Monteagle  dear,  to  thine. 

Last,  but  not  least : 

To  rich  dessert  in  camp  and  hall, 
The  closing  banquet  of  them  all. 
Before  the  Autumn  curtains  fall 
On  Summer's  life. 


(postscript.) 

This  isn't  writ  to  you  at  all. 
But  to  your  wife. 


TO  BOB  BURDETTE. 

ON   READING  HIS   LINES  ENTITLED  "TEAMSTER  JIM." 

You  struck  right  at  the  moral,  Bob,  a  slioulder-liitting  blow, 
And  knocked  the  stuffin'  squarely  out  of  twaddlin'  "  'Ostler  Joe." 
You  opened  Truth's  dividers  wide,  and  drew  a  decent  rim 
Around  ten  thousand  hearth  -  stones  like  that  of  "Teamster  Jim." 

You  got  us  all  excited.  Bob  ;   we  sat  and  braced  our  feet, 
Just  wondering  what  would  happen  next  unto  the  great  elite, 
Who  know  the  line  exactly  where  people  shouldn't  gush, 
And  carry  fans  convenient  in  case  they  need  to  blush. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  us.  Bob,  all  waiting  to  be  shocked. 
With  eyebrows  slightly  lifted  and  proud  lips  closely  locked, 
As  the  reader  gave  the  title,  version- thirdly  of  the  kind 
That  squeezes  out  love's  sweetness  and  hankers  for  the  rind. 

The  first  and  second  stanzas  showed  you  on  the  proper  track. 
To  harrow  up  our  feelings  on  the  sentimental  rack; 
Tiie  third  one  had  'em  married,   and  we  saw  you  knew  the  rules 
When  you  introduced  the  Teamster  with  his  four  Kentucky  mules. 

Tiien  the  plot  began  to  thicken,  all  was  happiness  and  glee. 
And  a  darling  precious  baby  cooed  and  played  on   Maggie's  knee. 
Every  day  brought  richer  blessings,  sweeter  than  the  day  before, 
And  the  lilacs  shed  their  fragrance  over  "Jim  the  Teamster's"  door. 

Then  you  should  have  heard  a  twitter  from  a  group  with  shoulders  bared, 
That  the  public  had  "some  feelings"  which  they  thought  were  better 
spared ; 


To  Bob  Bu7'dette.  1 3 1 

But  a  cruel  cynic  muttered:  "While  'full-dress'  is  all  the  go, 
I  don't  see  the  'arm  of  whimpering  over  'Jim'  or  "Ostler  Joe.'" 

Then  we  got  excited,  Robert,  as  the  end  was  drawing  near, 
When  Jim  or  Maggie,  or  the  mules,  would  get  up  on  their  ear; 
For  we  thought  that  you  were  "holding"  just  to  take  another  trick. 
As  you  brought  the  little  children  a -piling  in  so  thick. 

Well,  it  was  a  curious  picture  in  that  mansion  on  the  hill. 
And  we  somehow  heard  "Jim"  praying,  for  the  room  was  very  still; 
Then  from  out  the  silence  stealing  came  an  old  familiar  air: 
Was  it  Maggie,  or  the  angels,  in  the  cottage  over  there  ? 

And  so  we  sat  and  waited  for  the  shocking  to  begin  ; 
But  there  wasn't  room  for  blushes,  or  a  place  to  put  them  in — 
Till  at  length  it  dawned  upon  us  we  had  all  been  richly  sold  : 
We  w*ere  looking  out  for  copper,  and  we  struck  a  mine  of  gold. 


WASECA. 

AN  INDIAN  LEGEND. 
{Read  at  the  Waseca  Assembly,  Waaeca,  Minn.,  1886.) 

Lost  in  the  forest — three  maidens  fair — 

Lost  in  tlie  wild  woods,  dark  and  deep — 
AVanderinoj  hopelessly  liere  and  there, 

Throngh  tangled  thickets  where  shadows  sleep. 
Is  there  no  refuge?   at  last  they  cry — 
Mercy  or  hope  in  the  starlit  sky  ? 

They  had  come  from  far  in  that  early  day, 

Ere  the  plough  had  opened  this  Northern  land, 
And  had  wandered  ofiE  and  lost  their  way — 
Lost  in  an  hour  from  their  little  band. 
No  answer  came  to  their  earnest  call — 
Silence  and  darkness  over  all. 

On  through  the  midnight  they  hold  their  way, 

Praying  that  angels  may  be  their  guide; 
Suddenly,  gleaming,  before  them  lay 
A  lake  with  outlook  of  beauty  wide; 

And  their  hearts  grew  calm  as  the  waters  bright, 
Serenely  sleeping  in  soft  moonlight. 

It  seemed  more  human  than  forest  dark, 

This  strip  of  the  sky  to  earth  let  down. 
Again  awoke  life's  glimmering  spark 

From  hope's  dead  ashes,  cold  and  brown ; 

And  tiiey  dreamed  of  the  lake  their  childhood  knew, 
The  rock -bound  Minnewaska  blue. 


JVaseca.  133 

But  see  !    on  the  ripples  a  twinkling  light, 

Steadily  gliding  along  the  shore  ; 
Nearer  and  clearer  it  grows  more  bright 
AVith  rhythmical  swing  of  sweeping  oar; 
And  there  came  in  accents  soft  and  low 
A  melody  sweet  as  a  brooklet's  flow. 

What  shall  they  do  in  their  hour  of  fear  ? 
Is  peril  or  help  in  that  flickering  ray  ? 
Strange  was  the  music  to  Saxon  ear 
As  it  gently  floated  and  died  away ; 

But  they  felt  that  love,  and  love  alone. 
Was  the  burden  of  words  to  them  unknown. 

Sweetly  rose  from  the  wanderers  there 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul," 
Full  and  deep  as  a  burdened  prayer, 
"While  the  nearer  waters  roll." 

The  rower  listened,  then  straightway  came. 
And  in  broken  English  asked  their  name. 

'Twas  an  Indian  maid  in  birch  canoe, 

Brought  to  their  rescue  that  summer  night ; 
Her  father  a  chief  of  the  haughty  Sioux, 

Who  claimed  the  land  as  their  nation's  nVht. 
She  said  her  brothers  would  guide  their  way, 
And  find  their  band  at  the  break  of  day. 

She  gave  them  then  a  history  strange : 

How  her  mother  came  from  the  wooded  shore 
Of  a  beautiful  lake  near  the  Erie  range. 
Almost  in  sound  of  Niagara's  roar. 

Chautauqua,  she  said,  was  her  mother's  name — 
A  prophetess  born  to  enduring  fame. 

"  She  taught  me  the  words  which  I  heard  you  sing 

On  the  moonlit  rock  by  the  silent  shore ; 
Her  spirit  guides  me  on  angel's  wing ; 

She  sleepeth,  but  liveth  forevermore; 


134  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

She  learned  the  truth  in  her  far-off  home, 
Ere  she  came  with  this  warlike  tribe  to  roam. 

"She  told  me  also  a  wonderful  dream, 

But  I  know  some  day  it  will  all  come  true — 
That  thousands  would  gather  by  lake  and  stream. 
Where  wisdom's  manna  should  fall  like  dew. 
Her  name  is  to  live  in  the  years  to  be, 
"Well  known  in  the  isles  of  the  farthest  sea. 

"  She  said  that  here  was  a  chosen  place — 

Waseca  !  Waseca  !     Charming  name  ! 
From  out  whose  woodland  should  spring  a  race 
Known  to  the  living  voice  of  fame — 
Chautauqua's  daughter,  and  I  am  she ; 
'Waseca'  my  mother  christened  me." 

Then  she  guided  her  charge  through  the  sylvan  way 

To  her  father's  camp  for  food  and  rest. 
And  her  brothers  brought  them  at  dawn  of  day 
To  their  broken  band,  and  all  were  blest. 
This  is  the  legend  that  I  have  heard. 
True  to  the  letter,  and  every  word. 

Where  are  the  wanderers?     Who  can  know? 
Or  where  the  dark  -  haired  Indian  maid  % 
Ah !    this  was  forty  years  ago, 

And  the  drama  of  life  is  strangely  played. 
Whatever  their  lot,  that  forest  dark 
Its  prophecy  keeps  in  Maplewood  Park. 


"SHALL  STAND  WITH  KINGS." 

(^Read  at  the  Twenty -fifth  Anniversary  of  Eastman  Business  College,  Poughkeepsie,  N.  T., 

1884.) 

From  out  the  turmoil  and  the  strife 

Of  party  clamor  fierce  and  wide, 
From  quiet  homes  and  restful  life, 

We  gather  here  with  honest  pride. 

To  note  the  hour,  to  mark  the  year, 

Our  "Business  College"  had  its  birth. 

To  emphasize  with  hearty  cheer 
Our  recognition  of  its  worth  ; 

To  place  the  never-dying  flowers 

Of  love  upon  its  founder's  brow, 
To  make  his  zeal  and  courage  ours. 

Twin -words  which  still  these  walls  endow; 

To  stand  beside  the  corner-stone. 

The  base  our  Eastman  laid  so  well. 
To  note  the  work  so  ably  done 

By  you  on  whom  his  mantle  fell ; 

To  bring  with  warm  and  grateful  hearts 
An  offering  from  Poughkeepsie  due — 

Queen  City  of  a  hundred  marts, 

Midway  between  the  mountains  blue; 

Between  the  On  -  ti  -  o  -  ras  grand, — 

The  Catskills  grouped  like  Titans  old. 

And  Highlands  firni,  whose  Beacons  stand 
To  watch  the  morning  tints  unfold; 


1 36  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Midway  the  Hudson's  glorious  tide 

"Safe  Harbor" — Apo-keep-sing  reads — 

An  anchorage  sure,  with  outlook  wide, 

Midway  between  your  dreams  and  deeds. 

From  vigorous  youth  to  manhood  bold 
Your  college  passes  now  to-night, 

Its  twenty -five  years  proudly  told 
In  living  letters  clear  and  bright. 

It  turns  the  quarter -flag  and  post 

With  bounding  strength  and  quickening  pace, 

While  sturdy  shout  and  valid  boast 
Proclaim  it  foremost  in  the  race. 

And  you  who  form  the  present  link 
Within  this  ever -lengthening  chain. 

From  far  Sierra's  mountain  brink, 

From  coral  reefs  to  pine -clad  Maine, 

From  northern  coast,  from  sunny  lands, 
From  Aztec  cities  old  and  gray. 

From  Nicaragua's  burning  sands — 
You  take  no  idle  part  to-day. 

You,  too,  are  near  your  manhood's  line. 
The  quarter- post  is  also  yours. 

Whereon  these  words  transparent  shine — 
Unceasing  toil  success  insures. 

There's  room  enough  on  every  hand 

For  men  of  muscle,  brain,  and  nerve  ; 

Supply  ne'er  met  tlie  loud  demand 
Of  honesty  too  high  to  swerve. 

The  field  you  enter  on  is  wide. 

You  make  the  laws  that  statesmen  frame, 

You  hold  secure  the  reins  that  guide 

The  nation's  course  to  power  and  fame. 


''''Shall  Stand  with  Kmgs^  137 

You  lift  the  torch  and  bridge  the  stream 

Whereon  with  wonder  centuries  look  ; 
You  frame  and  sell  tlie  artist's  dream, 

You  bind  and  ship  the  poet's  book. 

Through  granite  rocks  you  drive  apace, 

Round  mountain -peaks  your  girdles  wind, 

Your  desk  and  table  span  the  space 
Between  material  and  mind. 

You  bring  the  coinage  of  tlie  world 

To  Lombard  Street  from  India's  sun, 
And  France  her  proud  tricolor  furled 

To  London's  gold,  not  Wellington. 

"Tlie  man  in  business  diligent 

Shall  stand  with  kings"  remaineth  true; 

To  Jewish  wealth  Napoleon  bent — 
Kothschild  was  king  at  Waterloo. 

His  word  was  "  open  sesame  " 

To  banker's  vault  and  miser's  hoard  ; 
His  signature  proved  literally, 

••  The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword." 

But  in  the  race  for  power  and  fame, 

The  eager  striving  for  success, 
Mark  tliis — true  love  and  honest  name 

Confer  the  only  happiness. 

The  house  that's  founded  on  a  wrong 

Is  built  and  reared  at  fearful  cost, 
And  judgment  falls,  though  waiting  long. 

On  honors  gained  by  honor  lost. 

Festina  lente!   haste  but  wait! 

Have  patience  though  the  hour -sands  waste; 
It  seems  the  paradox  of  fate 

To  hold  in  check  and  bid  us  haste. 


1 38  Old  Hojuestead  Poems. 

Be  bold,  ay,  bold,  but  not  too  bold. 
Is  sung  again  in  verses  new  ; 

Despise  not  truths  and  maxims  old, 
Be  upright,  faithful,  firm,  and  true. 

Let  conscience,  trust,  and  rectitude 
Forever  in  your  hearts  abide. 

And  may  Life's  Book  of  debts  accrued 
Find  balance  on  the  credit  side ! 


GOD'S    HEARTH  -  STONE. 

The  evening  fires  are  burning  dim 
Along  Chautauqua's  western  rim  ; 
The  embers  of  a  dying  day 
Are  sinking  in  the  ashes  gray. 

We  lay  aside  our  toil  and  care, 

"We  bow  to  Thee  in  thankful  prayer, 

That  round  Thy  hearth  -  stone,  wide  and  free. 

The  world  is  all  one  family. 


*''<^'ti\^'i'* 


'THE  EVENING   FIKLb   AJU.   IILIUM.M.    l^LM   -vi.u.\'- 


ALTAtnLA  i    \\I.-ii_i.. 


'Tis  not  in  temples  built  by  hands, 
Or  written  scrolls  from  far-off  lands. 
But  at  the  altars  reared  by  Thee, 
We  learn  the  truest  liturgy. 

Thy  voice  was  heard  on  Sinai's  height, 
On  Horeb's  mountain  veiled  in  night ; 


1 40  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  in  every  rill, 
Thy  glory  glows  on  every  hill. 

Kight  speaks  to  night,  day  speaks  to  day  ; 
Their  world-wide  language  lives  for  aye; 
Their  lines  have  gone  through  all  the  earth, 
The  heavens  declare  Thy  matchless  worth. 

So  may  Tiiy  Word  of  Love  more  dear 
To  every  age  and  race  appear, 
Until  Time's  narrow,  restless  sea 
Is  hushed  in  Thy  eternity. 

And  O,  may  faith  still  deeper  grow, 

Till  peace  from  heart  to  heart  shall  flow  ! 

Till  all  the  world,  each  even  -  tide, 

Shall  gatiier  round  Thy  hearth  -  stone  wide  ! 


THE   EAGLE'S   QUILL. 

Lkgend.— THE   BEST   PART   OF  THE   AMERICAN   EAGLE   IS   THE   QUILL. 
{Read  at  the  Twenty-fifth  Anniversary  of  Coleman  Business  College,  Neicark,  K.  J.,  1885.) 

I  COME  with  a  subject  familiar  to-night, 
Adapted  for  business  or  fanciful  flight ; 
Esteemed  by  our  fathers  in  fair  days  of  old, 
Revered  by  their  children — on  silver  and  gold — 

The  American  Eagle,  proud  bird  of  the  free  ! 
With  motto  in  beak,  "  Unum  Pluribus  E." 
With  arrow  and  olive-branch  firm  in  his  claw, 
Believing  in  peace  and  believing  in  law ; 

Bright  warden  that  jingles  with  musical  chime 
On  counter  or  tablet,  in  prose  or  in  rhyme, 
The  bird  we  are  proud  of  wherever  we  roam, 
Clear- eyed  as  our  fair  "Jersey  Lilies"  at  home. 

We  are  glad  that  the  century  finds  him  in  health, 
Presenting  at  par  the  national  wealth, 
And  we've  noticed  whenever  he  opens  his  claws 
That  the  lion  stops  roaring  and  pulls  in  his  paws. 

From  the  Tea  Party  held  in  Boston  one  day. 
To  the  race  with   Genesta  on  ocean  and  bay. 
The  Eagle  at  times  may  have  known  how  to  brag, 
But,  as  usual,  the  Puritan  carries  the  flag. 


142  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

The  ship  Alahama  sailed  out  to  tlie  west, 
On  business  that  wasn't  considered  the  best, 
But  Old  England  grew  pale  at  the  itcjnized  bill 
Which  our  Evarts  drew  up  with  American  quill. 

The  Adamses,  Hamiltons,  Jeffersons,  Jays, 

The  Jacksons,  Calhouns,  the  Websters  and  Clays, 

Who  guided  by  word  or  conquered  by  will. 

Were  always  the  greatest  when  handling  the  quill. 

From  the  day  that  the  Mayflower  unloaded  her  freight, 
To  the  last  civil  plank  in  the  old  Ship  of  State, 
The  popular  breeze  jib  and  main -sail  might  fill. 
But  the  man  at  the  helm  was  the  man  with  the  quill. 

For  the  passions  of  men,  like  the  foam  or  the  spray, 
Seethe  loud  for  the  moment,  then  vanish  away. 
But  the  lines  that  grow  brighter  on  history's  page 
Are  the  words  of  the  prophet,  the  statesman,  and  sage. 

The  clamor  of  praise  and  the  voice  of  the  crowd 
Dissolve  in  the  air — pass  away  as  the  cloud, 
But  the  stories  of  Homer  and  Stratford's  "Sweet  Will" 
Go  down  through  the  ages  asserting  the  quill. 

The  Platos,  the  Solons,  and  Blackstones  survive 
The  Forums  and  Councils  where  advocates  strive  ; 
The  lawyer  may  triumph  through  quiddit  or  flaw, 
But  the  Runyons  and  Kents  always  hand  down  the  law. 

The  Stephensons,  Franklins,  and  Fultons  were  born 
When  Bacon's  "  Organuni "  saluted  the  morn  ; 
The  telegraph's  ticking,  the  telephone's  trill. 
Are  dashes  from  Morse's  and  Edison's  quill. 

The  "  genii  bottled  "  anticipate  steam, 
Bartholdi  interprets  Aladdin's  fair  dream. 
And  the  ravens  of  Odin  perch  over  the  door 
Of  the  editor's  room  on  the  sky -garret  floor. 


The  Eagles  Quill.  143 

We  have  right  to  be  proud,  for  the  record  is  fine  ; 
And  our  Eagle  proposes  to  fly  on  this  line 
Until  labor  and  honor  go  forth  hand  in  hand, 
And  the  pen  is  the  sceptre  that  rules  every  land. 

Yankee  Doodle  forever !    Columbia  hail ! 
With  banner  at  royal,  and  bunting  on  rail  ; 
Write  "  Liberty  "  large,  and  vi'ork  with  a  will 
To  emulate  Hancock's  and  Washington's  quill. 

And  this  is  the  moral — remember  it,  boys ! 

It  isn't  entirely  a  question  of  noise  ; 

The  engine  may  shriek,  and  the  whistle  blow  shrill, 

But  the  man  at  the  lever  's  the  man  with  the  quill. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  LIGHT. 

The  joyous  sono^  of  the  morning  stars 
The  poet  caught  in  the  dawn  of  titne  ; 

He  read  the  notes  of  the  heavenly  bars, 

His  soul  was  thrilled  with  the  choral  chime. 

Through  mystic  years  the  Egyptian  heard 
From  Memnon's  statue  a  harp -like  tone, 

And  marvelled  at  the  elusive  word 
From  raylit  lips  of  lifeless  stone. 

In  Orphic  and  Homeric  days 

The  god  of  music  was  god  of  ligbt, 

And  strung  Aurora's  rhythmic  rays 
Across  the  vibrant  lyre  of  night. 

And  savants  now  in  the  world's  high  noon 
The  visions  of  olden  times  rehearse ; 

For  rhythm  of  music  and  light  are  one, 
And  science  reflects  the  poet's  verse. 


QUESTIONS. 

Whence,  and  whither,  and  what  are  we, 
Tossed  on  the  billows  of  ceaseless  strife? 

Where  is  the  shore  beyond  the  sea  ? 

Where  is  the  fountain  of  human  life? 

Whence  and  whither?     Ah,  all  in  vain 
We  wait  and  listen.     No  tidiii<^s  come; 

Darkness  and  shadows  still  remain. 

The  stars  are  silent,  the  earth  is  dumb. 

We  question  the  years  ;    they  answer  naught 
Save  this — from  the  void  we  also  came. 

The  circle  widens  of  human  thought. 
But  life's  horizon  remains  the  same. 

We  pick  with  lenses  the  flecks  of  light. 
We  sift  from  Ncbnlifi  sun   by  sun. 

We  mark  and  measure  the  comet's  fligiit. 
We  v/eigh  the  planets  one  by  one  : 

From  lowest  germ  to  highest  form 

We  trace  the  links  of  Nature's  chain  ; 

But  what  is  life — this  essence  warm  ? 
The  same  deep  mysteries  still  remain. 

Like  children   who  rap  on  an  empty  vault, 
And  listen  to  hollow  echoes  there, 

Material  science  is  still  at  fault — 

The  tomb  of  Nature  is  cold  and  bare. 


10 


146  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Like  travellers  lost  in  forest  vast, 

Keturiiing  and  crossing  their  paths  again, 

It  reasons  in  circles,  to  find  at  last 

That  it  reaches  the  point  whei'e  the  quest  began. 

Ah,  fruitless  search!     We  learn  no  more; 

The  wisest  sage  no  knowledge  brings; 
No  step  returns  from  the  silent  shoi'e ; 

"Rounded  with  sleep"  the  poet  sings; 

"A  narrow  cape  betwixt  two  seas," 

"A  swallow  darting  through  the  room," 

A  leaf  that  flutters  in  the  breeze, 
A  moment's  light,  a  rayless  tomb ; 

Phantasmagoria,  thing  of  a  day, 

Born  of  the  night,  into  darkness  hurled. 

Cunning  compound  of  breath  and  clay, 
Ashes  and  dust  of  a  worn  -  out  world : 

Flitting  shadows  on  cosmic  screens ! 

Silhouettes  thrown  from  a  juggler's  hand  ! 
Phantom  players  in  spectral  scenes! 

Is  this  the  enigma  to  understand? 

Or  is  there  a  breeze  from  the  open  sky 

That  wakens  the  harp  of  a  thousand  strings  ? 

A  firm -built  hope  that  a  human  sigh 

Is  borne  through  ether  on  angels'  wings  { 

An  inspiration  that  One  is  just. 

Who  keeps  the  sparrow  in  His  care? 

That  this   spark  from  Ilim,  in  a  shell  of  dust, 
His  love  and  goodness  shall  also  share? 

A  final  rest  for  faltering  feet. 

Weary  and  pierced  with  cruel  wounds, 

Clinibing  to  reach  the  golden  street 
Up  ladders  made  of  brittle  rounds? 


Questions. 

Questions  answei'ed  by  Faith  alone, 

Not  to  be  settled  by  words  of  strife; 

To  be  leai'ned  at  last,  to  be  fully  known, 

When  the  key  of  death  fits  the  wards  of  life. 


147 


'WHERE    IS    THE    SHORE    BEYOND    THE    SEA?" 


THE  INFINITE. 

With  measuring  lines  we  reach  from  star  to  star, 

On  pinion  bold  we  seek  creation's  rim, 
The  vast  horizon  mocks  us  from  afar 

"With  sphere  on  sphere  beyond  our  vision  dim  ; 
On  weary  wing  our  thought,  from   voyage  vain. 

Like  that  lone  dove,  with  neither  leaf  nor  bud, 
Returns  to  find  the  windowed  ark  again — 

A  floating  refuge  on  a  shoreless  flood. 
O  mystery  vast  which  veils  the  sovereign  brow! 

O  vergeless  silence,  depths  by  light  untrod ! 
Space  without  centre!     Time,  eternal  now! 

O  star- gemmed  vesture!     Seamless  robe  of  God  1 
What  word  doth  this  vast  Universe  inthrall ! 
Bounded  by  nothing,  yet  embracing  all. 


SHADOWS. 

"Whispering  wave  and  throbbing  billow 
Gently  rock  themselves  to  sleep ; 

Mellow  moonlight  floods  the  heavens, 
Silver  sheen  illumes  the  deep. 


"SILVER    MiEh.N     ILLLMElj    lliK     Dl^Ll'. 

Eipples  break  in  softest  whispers 
Kound  the  shallop's  swarthy  side ; 

Every  star  in  yonder  welkin 

Trembles  on  the  trembling  tide. 

Far  away  the  listless  topsail 
Dances  on  the  silent  sea; 

Here  upon  the  quivering  margin 
Shadowy  shapes  of  you  and  me. 


150 


Old  Homestead  Poems. 


"shadowy  shapes  of  you  and  me. 

Floating  shadows,  almost  blended, 
Phantom  forms  that  flit  and  flee, 

Would  you  dream  those  were  our  shadows 
Gliding  o'er  the  glimmering  sea? 

Blissful  blending !    wave  and  moonlight. 
Radiant  sky  and  boundless  sea; 

Why  should  we  obtrude  two  shadows? 
One  will  do  for  you  and  me. 


So  the  shadows  drew  together, 
Mixed  and  melted  into  one; 

Just  as  if  the  silly  shadows 

Didn't  know  'twas  said  in  fun. 


MY   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT. 

Talk  of  your  Christmas  presents,  boys, 
Compared  with  mine  mere  worthless  toys! 

Your  slippers,  gowns,  and  smoking -caps, 
Your  tidies,  scarfs,  and  worsted  wraps. 

Are  well  enough,  and  doubtless  show 
That  more  the  giver  might  bestow; 

But  these  are  trifles  matched  with  mine, 
Which  Annie -mates  this  happy  line. 

'Twas  just  by  chance,  the  good  old  way, 
We  met  one  merry  Christmas -day — 

Exactly  nineteen  years  ago. 

The  ground,  as  now,  was  white  with  snow, 

Tiie  sky  was  clear,  the  stars  shone  bright, 
The  sleigh  -  bells  i-ang  that  joyous  night ; 

The  oft -told  story,  ever  new, 
Found  welcome  in  her  eyes  of  blue. 

Yes,  Santa  Claus  was  kind  to  me; 
And  now,  beside  our  Christmas-tree, 

We  call  to  mind  the  golden   prime 

That  tuned  our  hearts  to  rhythmic  chhne. 

And  wrote  in  letters  fair  to  see, 
"True  love  is  always  poetry." 


1 5  2  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

Pra}'  count  those  stockings  red  and  small 
Now  hanging  on  the  chimney  wall. 

Yon  see  how  love  at  interest  grows ; 
We're  richer  than  the  tax  -  list  shows. 

The  best  investment  isn't  stocks, 
Unless  you  spell  them  briefly — "  socks." 

Pin -cushioned  dolls  are  well  enough, 
But  give  me  hearts  of  solid  stuff. 

Cold  comfort  has  the  weary  head 
That  rests  on  tidies  pink  or  red. 

No  scarf  for  me,  but  loving  arm 

To  keep  the  neck  and  shoulders  warm. 

Let  others  have  the  smoking -cap, 
But  give  to  me  my  Annie's  lap. 

I  envy  not  your  costly  gown 

While  her  dear  eyes  look  kindly  down. 

Drain  dry  your  cups  of  bubbling  bliss; 
Give  me  her  "hinnied  lips"  to  kiss. 

Old  Time  may  make  her  tresses  gray, 
But  ne'er  efface  that  Christmas -day. 

My  stocking  had  been  hung  before 
On  mantle -piece  and  chamber  door. 

But  Santa  Claus  here  broke  the  rule — 
My  present  filled  two  stockings  full. 


The  moral,  boys,  is  short  and  plain, 
Don't  hang  your  stockings  up  again  ; 


My  Christmas  Present. 


153 


we're  richer  than  the  tax-list  shows." 

From  long  experience  I  know 
You'll  never  get  a  present  so. 


Take  my  advice,  look  otherwhere, 
And  find  one  in — anotlier  pair. 


WITCH-HAZEL  LASHES. 


O  HAZEL  eyes  of  witching  power, 

And  lashes  sweet  that  wound  my  heart ; 

Still,  as  in  childhood's  tender  hour, 
Witch-hazel  lashes  make  me  smart. 

O  rosy  cheeks,  which  Nature's  hand 

Hatli  touched  with  her  divinest  grace  ! 

Mine  tingle  too  ;    one  small  rattan 

In  memory's  seat  still  keeps  its  place. 

O  tender  lips,  with  roses  wreathed. 
That  part  in  sweetness  and  return  ! 

The  poet  sings  of  thoughts  that  hreathed  ; 
I've  felt,  alas  !    the  lines  that  burn. 

O  golden  fleece  of  sunny  hair, 

Which  many  a  Jason  fond  would  touch, 
Do  not  ensnare  me,  'twon't  be  fair. 

For  I've  been  braided — yes,  too  much. 

I'll  dream  no  more  of  foreign  strands. 
Those  switches  could  a  tale  unfold — 

Perhaps  were  combed  by  other  hands. 
As  I  was  switched  in  days  of  old. 

And  are  those  roses  also  naught? 

Thy  blushes  false,  like  other  pelf? 
Thy  tongue,  with  silly  language  fraught, 

At  last  recalls  me  to  myself. 
*  *  *  * 


Witch  -  Hazel  Lashes. 


155 


"O    HAZEL    EYES    OF    WITCHING    PO\VER." 


How  many  flies  in  sweetness  stick, 
Youth  only  by  experience  learn, 

When  boys  we  "lasses  "  used  to  lick, 
And  we  were  all  licked  in  return. 


A  COAST    SURVEY. 

Oh  yes,  I've  seen  yonr  Boston  girls, 
And  anchored  close  to  Cambridge  curls  ; 
But  from  Ches'peake  'way  down  to  Maine 
There  is  no  girl  like  Sai-ah  Jane. 

What  love -lit  eyes!     Twin   beacons  rare! 
What  landscape   cheeks!    what  wavy  hair! 
Her  mouth — a  sort  of  inland  sea, 
Her  smile — a  whole  Geography. 

She  is  the  bonniest,  best -rigged  lass 
From  Sandy  Hook  to  Hatteras ; 
And  when  she  laughs  her  open  face 
Looks  like  a  sea- side  watering-place. 

What  joy  to  launch  a  gallant  kiss 
Upon  that  tideless  sea  of  bliss  ! 
To  start  it  off,  and  let  it  float 
To  realms  of  sweetness  far  remote ; 

To  navigate  a  whaling  smack, 
Without  a  thought  of  getting  back  ; 
To  drift  unheeding  day  or  night, 
Or  drop,  like  Jonah,  out  of  sight. 

And  yet  one  seems  to  need  a  chart 
To  find  a  port  from  which  to  start ; 
Her  mouth  is  like  Long  Island  Soiiiul, 
It  takes  a  week  to  go  'way  round. 


A  Coast  Survey.  157 

And  very  few  survive  the  trip, 
Especially  round  the  upper  lip  ; 
A  treacherous  coast,  where,  all  forlorn, 
Her  nose  protrudes — just  like  Cape  Horn. 

Columbus  thought,  by  sailing  west, 
To  find  the  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
But  had  he  ploughed  this  pathless  sea 
He  might  have  sailed  eternally. 

The  voyage  may  be  safe  and  plain. 
But  please  excuse  me,  Sarah  Jane; 
On  second  thought  I'm  in  no  haste 
To  launch  upon  that  boundless  waste. 

So  tempt  me  not;   the  sweetest  kiss 
No  sounding  finds  in  that  abyss. 
I'd  rather  float  in  Baffin's  Bay, 
While  others  make  your  coast  survey. 


My  Annie  dear,  you  lift  your  eyes 
To  ask  me  where  the  moral  lies  ? 
Ah,  rose-bud  mouth,  well — if  you  please, 
There  liave  been  wrecks  on  smaller  seas. 


JULIET   TO    ROMEO. 

One   more  fond  kiss,  my  Romeo,  and  away ! 

The  eastern  hills  are  touched  witli  rosy  liglit. 
Ah  love,  with  thee  dun  night  is  briglitest  day, 

And  brightest  day,  when  thou  art  gone,  is  night. 
How  blest  the  hours  swift -borne  on  starry  wheels! 

How  heavy  waiting  on  the  laggard  sun  ! 
A  weary  void  till  day  her  eyelids  seals, 

And  Heaven's  high  warders  guard  love's  fortress  won. 
Dear  Romeo,  go  !     Yet  I  would  have  thee  stay. 

O  pilfering  morn,  that  robs  the  jewelled  skies! 
Purloining  gems  within  thy  mantle  gray. 

Take  all,  but  leave  the  one  dear  star  I  prize. 

Alas !  that  love  from  love  should  ever  part ; 
Yon  sunrise  brings  wan  sunset  to  my  heart. 


ANTONY   TO   CLEOPATRA. 

My  Cleopatra,  queen,  alas  the  day 

Thy  lustrous  eyes  proclaimed  such  bitter  doom  ! 
That  shame  and  Antony  should  live  for  aye, 

An  epitaph  on  Time's  enduring  tomb  ! 
Soft -coiling  serpent!     Thy  enticing  wiles 

Hold  heroes  captive  in  strong  toils  of  grace  ;     , 
For  power  is  lost  in  passion,  as  fond  smiles 

Light  up  the  matchless  beauty  of  thy  face. 
Cold  duty  summons;  but,  enchantress  fair, 

My  courage  melts  beneath  thy  glowing  eyes ; 
And  in  thine  arms  I  neither  reck  nor  care 

If  Roman  honor  lives  or  basely  dies. 

Let  Fame's  rich  pearl  dissolve  in  nectar  bright  1 
Farewell  to  valor — day  is  lost  in  night. 


FERDINAND   TO    MIRANDA. 

Miranda  mine,  thy  beauty  is  more  rare 

Tliaii  May -day  flowers  that  deck  the  meadows  green; 
Thy  lips  are  sweeter  than  the  lily  fair 

Plucked  fresh  at  dawn  from  out  the  glittering  sheen  ; 
The  mantling  color  of  thy  cheek's  bright  hue 

Makes  pale  and  shames  the  blood  of  damask  -  rose  ; 
Thine  eye  preserves  the  violet's  pensive  blue, 

Which,  born  of  light,  with  Heaven's  own  color  glows  ; 
Thy  neck,  full  sweet,  seems  like  a  flowery  lane. 

Or  garden  pathway,  to  thy  gentle  breast. 
Where  love,  that  knows  not  passion's  earthly  stain, 

Has  dwelt  alone  and  wished  no  other  guest. 
Here  Eden's  flowers  retain  the  morning  dew, 
And  sweeter  seem  united  all  in  you. 


ANNIE. 


1840, 

When  all  the  hills  were  rich  with  gold, 
And  beauty  bloomed  on  every  tree, 

One  darling  more  was  in  the  fold, 
One  treasure  more  upon  the  knee. 

180G. 

When  all  the  fields  were  white  with  snow, 
And  seventeen  Autumns  passed  away, 

By  Merry  Ciiristmas  fireside  glow 
We  met  that  winter  holida}-. 

isro. 

When  all  the  fields  were  fresh  and  fair, 
And  bird  and  brook  were  all  in   tune. 

Two  hearts  and  hands  were  given  there. 
That  quiet,  lovely  day  in  June. 

1887. 

And  so  the  seasons  are  but  three. 

For  Spring  and  Summer  now  are  one ; 

And  Winter  only  comes  to  me 

To  mark  the  time  of  love  besjun. 


II 


MY  CASTLE. 


The  hill -tops  are  fair  in  the  briglit,  cloudless  day, 
The  valleys  are  sweet  with  the  blossoms  of  May ; 
I  gaze  from  the  clifE  where  my  Castle  shall  stand — 
The  grandest  and  proudest  of  all  in  the  land  ; 

AVith  turrets  and  columns  of  Parian  white, 
Blucks  seamless  and  clear  as  if  quarried  from  light ; 
With  portal  wide  open  to  high  arching  hall, 
And  threshold  emblazoning  welcome  to  all. 

No  outlook  so  varied,  uo  structure  so  fair; 
Neither  Norman  nor  Moorish  with  mine  can  compare 
The  dreams  of  all  artists  from  over  the  sea 
Unite  in  one  vision  of  beauty  for  me. 

The  richest  wood  -  carvings  from  many  a  land. 
The  rarest  of  pictures  are  mine  to  command  : 
Ah,  dreamer,  whose  vessels  have  voyaged  in   vain, 
Come,  visit  my  Castle  from  Castles  in  Spain. 

II. 

The  glow  on  the  hill -tops  is  fading  away. 
The  valleys,  all  garnered,  are  russet  and  gray ; 
I  gaze  from  the  cliff  where  I  stood  the  fair  morn 
When  the  rose-tinted  dream  of  my  Castle  was  born. 

The  turrets,  the  columns,  the  tai)estries  rare 
Have  faded  and  melted  like  mist  in  the  air — 
Impalpal)le,  vain,  mortised  beams  of  moonshine  I 
The  sun  never  shone  on  that  Castle  of  mine. 


My  Castle.  163 

Ah,  well,  but  the  ground -plot  and  title  are  clear 
For  others  their  Castles  and  mansions  to  rear; 
While  I  keep  in  framework  of  old  tarnished  gilt 
The  Castle  of  mine  that  never  was  built. 

The  fireside  is  bright  in  a  dear  cottage  home, 

One  chimney  sufficing  for  turret  and  dome  ; 

And,  dreamer,  your  voyage  has  not  l)een   in   vain 

If  you  find  at  some  hearth -stone  your  Castle  in  Spain. 


A  WANDERER. 

I  HAVE  wandered  the  wide  world  o'er, 
I  liave  sailed  over  many  a  sea, 

But  the  land  that  I  love  more  and  more 
Is  Colnnibia,  the  land  of  the  free. 

From  the  east  to  the  western  shore, 
From  the  north  to  the  southern  sea, 
Columbia  for  me ! 

I  have  lingered  in  ivy -grown  bowers, 

In  minsters  and  palaces  vast, 
Amid  castles  and  crumbling  towers 

Whose  shadows  backward  are  cast; 
But  the  longed-for  Atlantis  is  ours. 

And  freedom  interprets  at  last 
The  dream  of  the  past. 

The  rivers  of  stor}'  and  song, 

The  Danube,  the  Elbe,  and  the  Tlhine, 
Entrance  for  a  day,  bnt  I  long 

For  the  dear  old  Hudson  of  mine; 
The  Hudson,  where  memories  throng. 

Where  love's  fondest  tendrils  entwine. 
Of  beauty  the  shrine. 

Like  music  entranced  in  a  dream 

Glide  the  Afton,  the  Doon,  and  the  Ayr; 
But  the  Jansen — the  clear  Jansen  stream, 

In  one  heart  shall  their  melody  share; 
And  my  soul  still  reflects  its  bright  gleam, 

For  I  played  in  my  childhood  there, 
When  visions  were  fair. 


A  Wanderer. 


165 


'•I    HAVE    SAILED    OVER    MANY    A    SEA.'" 


I  have  licard  the  sweet  chiming  of  hells. 
From  the  Seine  to  the   Avon  and  Dee, 

But  sweeter  the  anthem  that  swells 
From  the  pine -clad  Sierras  to  nie ; 

And  the  Sabbath -like  stillness  that  dwells 
In  these  mountains  far  np  from  the  sea, 
Lake  Tahoe  with  thee. 


1 66  Old  Homestead  Poems. 

I  have  gathered  sweet  flowers  in  tlie  west, 

Where  the  streams  are  emhroidered  with  gold; 

But  the  blossoms  that  I   love  the  best 
Are  those  whicli   I  gathered  of  old. 

The  same  that  my  mother's  lips  pressed, 
Tlieir  petals  the  sweetness  still  hold, 
Her  heart  thev  enfold. 


MIMK     tSWJ'Kr     A.ND     QUIET    NOOK. 

TO   MY  WIFE. 

I  HAVE  in  life  but  wishes  three : 
The  first  is  realized  in  thee ; 

The  second  you  can  surely  guess — 
Sweet  presents  sent  from  Heaven  to  bless; 

The  third  some  sweet  and  quiet  nook, 
To  read  the  leaves  of  Nature's  book. 


I  could  not  make  my  M-ishes  four — 
Love,  childien,  home — Earth  has  no  more. 


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Will  Carleton's   Poetical  Works. 

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Aris  Willmott.  With  English  and  American  Additions,  arranged  by  Evert 
A.  DuYCKiNCK.  New  and  Enlarged  Edition.  Superbly  Illustrated  with  141 
Engravings.  In  elegant  small  4to  form,  printed  on  Superfine  Tinted  I'apcr, 
riciily  bound  in  Extra  Cloth,  Bevelled,  Gilt  Edges,  $5  00-;  Half  Calf,  $5  50;  Full 
Turkey  Morocco,  $9  00. 

The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland. 

From  the  Earliest  to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Selections 
from  the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish  Poets,  with  Biographical  and 
Critical  Notices.  By  James  (irant  Wilson.  With  Portraits  on  Steel.  2  vols., 
Svo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $11  00;  Half  Calf,  $14  50;  Full  Mo- 
rocco, $18  00. 

Engravings   on  Wood  by  Members   of  the    Society    of  American 
Wood -engravers. 
With  Descriptive  Letter-press   by   W.  M.   Laffax.     Popular   Edition.     Large 
Folio,  Ornamental  Covers,  $12  00, 

Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner.     Illustrated  by  Dore. 

The  Rime  of  the  .\nci(.'nt  Mariner.  By  Samuel  Tavlor  (Coleridge.  Illustra- 
ted by  Gustave  Dore.  Folio,  Illuminated  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $10  00.  {/u  a 
Box.) 

Poe's  Raven.     Illustrated  by  Dore. 

The  Raven.  By  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Illustrated  by  Gustave  Dor6.  With 
Comment  by  E.  C.  Stedman.  Folio  (uniform  with  Dure's  "Ancient  Mariner"), 
Illuminated  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $10  00.     {In  a  Box.) 

Horse,  Foot,  and  Dragoons. 

Sketclies  of  Army  Life  at  Home  and  .\broad.  By  Rufus  Fairchild  Zoobaum. 
With  Illustrations  by  the  Author.     Square  Svo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  82  00. 


2  Selected  Home  Heading. 

Rolfe's  English  Classics. 

Edited,  with  Notes,  by  W.  J.  Rolfe,  A.M.  Illustrated.  Small  4to,  Flexible 
Cloth,  56  cents  per  volume;   Paper,  40  cents  per  volume. 

Select  Poems  of  fioi.nsMiTii. — Select  Poems  of  Thomas  Gray. — Select  Po- 
ems  OF   KOBEHT    lilJOWXIXG. — A    BLOT    IX    THE    'SCLTCHEOX,    AXD    OTIIEK    DHAMAS. 

By  RoBEKT  Bkowxixg. — Mixou  Poems  of  Joiix  Miltox. 

Shakespeare's   The   Tempest.  —  Mercilvxt   of  Vexice.  —  Kixo    Hexry  the 

ElGHTlL — JULIIS  C-ESAR. — KiCHARD  THE  SECOXU. — MaCBETH. — MiUSUMMER-NiGHT's 

Dream. — Kixg  Henry  the  Fifth. — Kixg  Johx. — As  You  Like  It. — Kixg  Hexry 
IV.  Part  I. — Kixg  Hexry  IV.  Part  II. — Hamlet. — Mich  Ado  Aboit  \othixg. 
— Romeo  axd  Jiliet.— Othello. — Twelfth  Night. — The  Wixter's  Tale. — Rich- 
ard THE  Third. —  King  Lear.  —  All's  Well  th.\t  Exds  Well. — Coriolaxis. — 
Tamixg  of  the  Shrew.— Cy.mbelixe.  — The  Comedy  of  Errors. — Axtoxy  axd 
Cleopatra. — Meascre  for  Measure. — Merisy  Wives  of  Wixdsor. — Love's  La- 
bour's  Lost. — Timox  of  Athens.  —  Two  Gextle.mex  of  Veroxa. — Troilus  axd 
Cressida.— Hexry  VI.  Part  L  —  Hexry  Tl.  Part  II.— Henry  VI.  Part  HI.— 
Pericles,  Prixce  of  Tyre.  —  The  Two  Noble  Kixsmex.  —  Vexus  axd  Adonis, 
&c. — SoxxETS. — Titus  Axdroxicus. 

Friendly  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  W^orks. 

Edited  by  W.J.  Kolfe.  In  20  voUniies.  Illustrated.  IGmo,  Sheets,  $27  00; 
Cloth,  $30  00;   Half  Calf,  $60  00.     {In  a  Box) 

Shakspeare's   Dramatic  "Works. 

The  Dramatic  Works  of  Shakspeare,  witli  the  Corrections  and  Illustrations  of 
Dr.  Johnson  G.  Steevens,  and  others.  Revised  by  Isaac  Reed.  Illustrated. 
6  vols..  Royal  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00;    Sheep,  $11  40. 

Folk-Lore  of  Shakespeare. 

By  the  Rev.  T.  F.  Thiselton  Dver,  M.A.,  Oxon.      8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Shakspere :  A  Critical  Study  of  his  Mind  and  Art. 

By  Edward  Dowden,  LL.D.,  Vice-president  of  "  The  New  Shakspere  Society." 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

The  Works  of  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Edited  by  Peter  Cunningham,  F.S.A.  From  New  Electrotype  Plates.  4  vols., 
8vo,  Cloth,  Paper  Labels,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $8  00;  Sheep,  $10  00; 
Half  Calf,  $17  00. 

Tennyson's  Songs,  with  Music. 

Songs  from  the  Published  Writings  of  Alfred  Tennyson.  Set  to  Music  by  va- 
rious Composers,  F^dited  by  W.  G.  Cusins.  With  Portrait  and  Illustrations 
by  Winslow  Homer,  C.  S.  Reinhart,  <kc.     Royal  4to,  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $5  00. 

Complete  W^orks   of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson, 

l^oet-Laureate.  AVitli  an  Introductory  Sketch  by  Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie. 
With  Portraits  and  Illu.strations.      8vo,  Cloth,  $200;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 

English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
By  Thomas  Sergeant  Perry.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 


Selected  Home  Heading. 


3 


English  Men  of  Letters.     Edited  by  John  Morley. 

12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents  a  volume.     {Volumes  now  ready.) 

JoiiNSOX.  By  Leslie  Stephen. — Ginnox.  By  J.  C.  Morison. — Scorr.  By  \i.  \l. 
Hiittoii. — Siiiii.i.KY.  By  John  Atldiiij^toii  Syiiumds. — Ilr.Mi;.  By  riolcssor  Huxley. 
Goldsmith.  By  William  Black.— I)i:i-oi:.  By  William  Miiito.— Bckns.  I{y  riiii- 
cipal  Sliairi). — SI'KNsku.  By  Dean  Clinrcli. — Thackkk.vy.  By  Antli(»ny  Trollniie. — 
Blkkk.  By  John  Morley. — MiLTux.  ]}y  Mark  Patti-  »n.— SoLTlir.v.  By  Edward 
Dowden.— Chaucer.  By  Adolphns  William  Ward. — Bunyan.  By  .James  Anthony 
Fronde. — Cowi'KK.  By  Goldwin  Smith.— Popk.  By  Leslie  Stejdien. —  Byicox.  By 
.loliM  Nichol. — LoCKK.  By  Thomas  Fowler. — WoHDswoinil.  By  F.  W.  II.  Myers.-- 
Dkydex.  By  G.  Saintsbnry. — Hawtiiouxk.  JJy  Henry  .James,  Jr.— Laxdok.  By 
Sidney  Colvin. —  De  Qiixcey.  By  David  Masson. — Lamii.  By  Alfred  Ainger.— 
Bextley.  By  K.  C.  Jebb. — DicKEXS.  By  A.  W.  Ward.— Gkay.  By  E.  W.  Go°.so. — 
Swift.  By  Leslie  Stephen.  —  Stehxe.  By  H.  D.  Traill.  —  Macailay.  I}y  James 
Cotter  Morison. — FlEUJiXG.  By  Anstin  Dobson. — Siieiudax.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant. — 
Addisox.  By  W.  J.  Conrthope. — liACOX.  By  R.  W.  CliMrch,  Dean  of  St.  Panl's. — 
CoLEKiDGE.  By  H.  D.  Traill. — Sidxey.  By  J.  A.  Symonds. — Keats.  By  Sidney 
Colvin.     {Other  vol itiHes  in  preparation.) 

Some  Issues  in  Harper's  Half- Hour  Series.     32mo. 

Goldsmith's  Plays.    Paper,  2  j  eents;  Cloth,  ^I'Cabe's    15allads  of  Battle    and    Bravery. 


40  cents. 

Goldsmith's  Poems.  Pai»er,  20  cents;  Cloth, 
35  cents. 

SiiEiUDAX's  The  Rivals  and  The  School  for 
Scandal.    Paper,  25  cents;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

Cowper's  Task.      Paper,  20  cents  ;    Cloth, 
35  cents. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Poems. 

Tlie  Lay  of  tiie   Last  Minstrel.      Paper,  20 

cents ;  Cloth,  .3.5  cents. 
The   Lady  of  the  Lake.     Paper,  25  cents  i 

Cloth,  40  cents. 
Marihion.     Paper,  25  cents ;  Cloth,  40  cents. 


Paper,  25  cents  ;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

Lawrexce's  Literjitnre  Primers.  In  Seven 
Volnmes.  Paper,  25  cents  each;  Cloth, 
40  cents  each. 

American  I/iteraturc. — EnLflish  Literature. 
Romance  Period. — Classical  Period.  —  .Mod- 
ern Period.  —  .Mediieval  I/iteiature.  —  Latin 
Literature. — Greek  Literature. 

Conant's  German  Literature.  Paper,  25 
cents;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

Coxant's  Spanish  Literature.  Paper,  25 
cents ;  Clotb, 40  cents. 


Pyle's  Pepper  and  Salt; 

Or,  Seasoning  for  Young  Folk.     By  Howard  Pvle. 
the  Author.     4to,  Oriianicntal  Cloth,  $2  UO. 


Superbly  Illustrated  by 


The  Wonder  Clock; 

Or,  Four  and  Twenty  Marvellous  Tales  :  being  One  for  each  Hour  of  the  Day. 
Written  and  Illustrated  with  160  Drawings  by  Howard  Tvle,  Author  of 
"  Pepper  and  Salt,"  "  The  Kose  of  Paradise,"  «tc.  Embellished  with  Verses  by 
Katharine  Pyle.     Large  8vo,  Half  Leather,  83  00. 

Goldsmith's  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.     Illustrated  by  Abbey. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer;  or.  The  Mistakes  uf  a  Night.  A  Comedy.  By  L>r. 
Goldsmith.  With  Ten  Full-page  Photo-gravure  Reproductions,  printed  on  sep- 
arate Plates;  many  Process  Ueproductions  and  Wood-engravings,  from  Draw- 
ings by  Edwix  a.  Abbey.  Decorations  by  Alfred  Parsons.  Introduction 
by  Austix  Dobson.  Fulio,  Illuminated  Leather,  Gilt  Edges,  §20  00.  (/«  a 
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Selected  Home  Heading. 


Herrick's  Poems.     Illustrated  by  Abbey. 

Selections  from  the  Poetry  of  Robert  llerrick.     AVith  Drawings  by  Edwin  A. 
Abbey,     4to,  Illuminated  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $7  50.      {In  a  Box.) 

The  Book  of  Gold,  and  Other  Poems. 

\\\  J.  T.  TuowiiiuDGE.     Illustrated.    8vo,  Ornamental  Covers,  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 

Halpine's  (Miles   O'Reilly)  Poems. 

With  a  Biographical  Sketch  and  Explanatory  Notes.     Edited  by  Robert  B. 
Roosevelt.     Portrait  on  Steel.      Post  8vo,  Cloth,  ^2  50. 

Howells's  Modern  Italian  Poets. 

Modern  Italian  Poets.      Essays  and  Versions.      By  "Wim.iam  Dean  IIowells. 
pp.  370.      With  Portraits.      12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Symonds's  Works. 

Stidiks    of   tiik    Greek    Poets.      By  J.  A.  Symoxos.     Revised  and  Enlarged  l)y 
the  Author.      In  Two  Volumes.     Square  16mo,  Cloth,  $:i  50. 

Sketches   and    Stupies  in  Southern  Europe.      By  J.  A.  Symonus.      In  Two 
Volumes,     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Mahaffy's  Greek  Literature. 

A  History  of  Classical  Greek  Literature.     By  J,  P,  Maiiaffy.     2  vols,,  12mo, 
Cloth,  $4  00. 

Simcox's  Latin  Literature. 

A  History  of  Latin  Literature,  from  Ennius  to  Boethius,     By  George  Augus- 
tus Simcox,  M.A,      In  Two  Volumes.      12mo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Deshler's  Afternoons  with  the  Poets. 

Afternoons  with  the  Poets.     By  C.  D.  Desiiler,      IGmo,  Clotli,  $1   75. 

Songs  of  Our  Youth. 

Set  to  Music.     i>y  the  Author  of  "John   Halifax,  Gentleman,"     Square  4to, 
Cloth,  12  50, 

An  Unknown  Country. 

By  the  Author  of  "John   Halifax,  Gentleman."      Richly  Illustrated  by  Fred- 
erick Noel  Paton.     Square  8vo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  ^2  50. 

Bayne's  Lessons  from  my  Masters. 

Lessons  from  my  Masters:  Carlyle,  Tennyson,  and  Ruskin,     By  Peter  Bayne, 
M.A.,  LL.D.     rimo.  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Our  Children's   Songs.     Illustrated. 

Selected  and  Arranged  by  the  Rev.  S.  Iren.eus  Prime,  D.D.     8vo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


PuBLTsriKD  BY  IIAEPER  ii'  BROTHERS,  New  York, 

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